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Blurry scenes appear as eyes blink in
the rhythm of a memoir the heart
could never describe. The pulse of
what lies concealed resounds like
echoes the mind is eternally bound
to keep.
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ππ©π πππππ, ππ ππ‘π ππππππ‘πππ π π‘ππππππ,
π π‘πππππ π π πππππ π©ππππππ¦,
π‘π©πππ’ππ© π©ππππ‘π π‘π©ππ‘ πππ£ππ π ππππ,
π‘π©πππ’ππ© πππππ π‘π©ππ‘ πππ£ππ ππππ‘π’ππ,
π¦ππ‘ ππ‘ πππππππ , ππππ’π‘ππππ,
ππ π‘π©π ππΜπππππ
ππππ π€π©πππ© ππππ πππ¦ ππ ππππ.
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Time is a fleeting adagio, shaping
every chamber of the core memories
we cannot recall but only feel
profoundly. Love is etched alongside
pages written with warmth and
endless adoration.
π³ππΎ πΎππΎπππππΎ ππΏ πππ πππ¦π π ππ¦,
π‘π π¦ππππππππ, πΌππππΎπΌππΊππΎπ½ ππππ π
πππΎ,
ππ π³ππΎ π³ππ½πΎπ»ππππΎ.
s.id/throbs-ticks
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