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Moonlight scarcely dares to gleam, love's cruel solecism unfolds. Shadows stretch long, casting their whispers upon hearts that ache without return. Poetry, once a balm, now becomes a mirror for yearning untold.
(Shall words ever capture the quiet torment, or merely scrape at surface wounds?) Write as one does, pouring longing upon parchment, though solace remains elusive—reaching for that which cannot be held, yet adoring what never responds.
Nightfall wraps its heavy cloak, silence broken by breaths alone.
@Erhorve: stubborn in its desire, seeks only to be seen, to be touched by something more than cold wind and fading starlight. Poetry flows from trembling hands, each line a testament to love given, never received. Yet, even silence feels like response, confirming what has long been feared. Through endless night, love lingers like a specter, haunting footsteps along paths where light once danced. Words written in quiet solitude echo back, their weight pressing against chest and mind. Write, for no other reason than to ease burdens love has placed. To adore without end, without return, is solecism in purest form, it shall endure.
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