ㅤㅤㅤ
౨ৎ ° in corners where sun dare not roam, linen sacks of rosemary rest, dustéd and golden with story: each stitch a name, forgotten by tongue but seared in thread and a glass jar held not preserves, but a moment: mulberries, lemon slices, and the silence of hands brushing. the ribbon 'round its neck whispered vows.. ♡
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ .·:*¨¨*:·.
ㅤhow the spoon resteth like a relic,
ㅤunmov’d for a fortnight. yet, it
ㅤglimm’reth, as if kissed by @delucaate_bot
ㅤat the cathedral light— a host for
ㅤunsung hymns. 🪷🪽
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ‧*˚⁺‧
the kettle’s song is old: older than lotus dreams, or the's kin, boil'd first for grief, then for hope, now merely for morning and the chairs, mismatched and sun-licked, bore quilts like memories, weight of poetry untold— @delucaate as the kind known only by elbows leaned during quiet.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
౨ৎ ° in corners where sun dare not roam, linen sacks of rosemary rest, dustéd and golden with story: each stitch a name, forgotten by tongue but seared in thread and a glass jar held not preserves, but a moment: mulberries, lemon slices, and the silence of hands brushing. the ribbon 'round its neck whispered vows.. ♡
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ .·:*¨¨*:·.
ㅤhow the spoon resteth like a relic,
ㅤunmov’d for a fortnight. yet, it
ㅤglimm’reth, as if kissed by @delucaate_bot
ㅤat the cathedral light— a host for
ㅤunsung hymns. 🪷🪽
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ‧*˚⁺‧
the kettle’s song is old: older than lotus dreams, or the's kin, boil'd first for grief, then for hope, now merely for morning and the chairs, mismatched and sun-licked, bore quilts like memories, weight of poetry untold— @delucaate as the kind known only by elbows leaned during quiet.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ