Marjolaine

Tenderness, lightly dusted with sadness. Words, as if written with a pen, dipped in moonlight and a slight melancholy - not the kind that weighs you down, but the kind that quietly whispers, ‘remember.’ In every sound, there is the thrill of a letter that will never be sent, and yet it flies, finding its addressee somewhere between breath and sleep.

The world around here is dissolved in the honey of memories: a little sea, a little fire, and an endless number of ‘what ifs.’ The music stretches out like a trail behind a ship, with only two names on board and not a single chance for coincidence. And while time, as always, rushes by, all that remains is to listen to how the heart still knows how to write poetry - even when no one will read it.