Echoing

Whispers heard from afar, Like birds or insects, or perhaps a rumble of the earth. Your words are indiscernible.

In the stillness of the night, I recall those days, Wondering if things would have changed if my voice had reached.

The scent of coffee, the sound of nails on the floor, the lost shade of lipstick, All melting into fossils of memory.

"Hey, can you hear me?" It's not your voice.

"I can hear you," someone answers. Is it my voice? Small and unclear.