Ephemeral Echoes of You

The light, it shifts… doesn’t it?
Like memories struggling to surface from the deep. I trace the curve of my wrist where his hand once rested, a ghost limb aching for reconnection.
He found me fractured, a constellation on the verge of collapse. He didn't try to fix me – oh, he simply held space, and within that quietude, I began to gather myself again.
Now, the city breathes around us, a restless hum beneath our stillness. A silent question hangs in the air: can we exist outside these stolen moments? Can something so fragile withstand the weight of 'always'?
His scent—rain on warm skin and old books— lingers even now. It’s an echo I don't want to fade, a phantom touch that keeps me tethered to this bittersweet precipice.
Perhaps some connections aren’t meant for permanence, only for the exquisite ache of remembering.

Editor: Floating Muse