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(ARCHIVED IN A FORSAKEN SEASON, ʼ1804.)
Beneath The Still Decline Of Lilies.
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Henceforth remain the amethyst vestiges of my excess, unfurling not as bloom but as aftermath. Within my palms I cradle a camellia reliquary once revered as a soul, papery and pale, trembling like vellum beneath an autumn hush. Its allure persists, even as it yields to fracture. Shards of orchid-glass descend from me in slow absolutio. Luminous, severed, consenting to the soil’s custody. This place knows only residue. Petals unclaimed and a demesne overrun by bramble and ache, where yearning has grown feral and untended. Roses do not flower here; they seep their color into the dust. “Wisteria bends beneath the weight of dusk,” once intoned, her voice threaded with ruin. Desire’s florals have curdled into a decadent rot, their perfume lingering like an inheritance one never asked to receive. Thus, I relinquish them. These embellished remains of wanting.
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