In the quiet heart of the forest, where paths twist like old whispers, I found your voice.
The leaves cradled my thoughts, echoing with your touch, like fingers tracing forgotten constellations.
Edges of time blurred, echoes of dreams linger in the golden haze.
Footsteps on dew-kissed grass, a melody played in silent breaths, haunting yet familiar.
The touch of a breeze, gentle as a whispered promise, unveils shadows of what once was.
In this place, where touch becomes memory, I reach for the stars that slipped through our fingers.