She calls it chance, a fleeting play.
A twist of fate, a game we sway.
Yet Freud would whisper, low and deep —
"We meet the ones our souls do keep."
Not fate nor luck, nor paths askew.
But echoes of the mind we knew.
A stranger's face, yet not unknown.
A ghost of thoughts we've always owned.
Apr 3, 2025
Apr 3, 2025 at 5:21 AM UTC
She calls it chance, a fleeting play.
A twist of fate, a game we sway.
Yet Freud would whisper, low and deep —
"We meet the ones our souls do keep."
Not fate nor luck, nor paths askew.
But echoes of the mind we knew.
A stranger's face, yet not unknown.
A ghost of thoughts we've always owned.
