The Wistful Petal
The petal was brown, brittle as old paper, and it sat on the corner of my desk, a single crushed thing that I had picked up from the sidewalk three days ago. I held it between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the rough, dry texture of the stem against my skin, and then I let it drop back onto the wood. It made no sound. It was just a piece of dead vegetation, but in the heat of the apartment,...
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