The Wistful Petal
The orchid on the windowsill has not bloomed in three years, and you know with the bone-deep certainty of a creature that has forgotten its own name that this silence is not a lack but a presence, a heavy, velvet hand pressing against the glass of your life, sealing you inside the amber of a time that no longer moves forward but only deepens, like wine turning to vinegar in a cellar where the...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen