When you came, your rose-colored steps carved echoes into the beautiful mystery of my heart; like time weathered certainty, you tossed waves from blackened borders— the place where our hands would reach out, forever searching, to the fading reflections of our shadows.
Was it your voice calling? I thought, if only for a moment, it was: piercing, unalterable, incessant. I wish I could remember; the image translates unevenly like dialect from a mother tongue—mirrored against the glimmer of a forgotten star, your body falls rigid.
I remember now the way your eyes faltered, fallen stars, before there was silence.
What do you think happened?
How would you continue the story? Let me know!