(:::[:♡:]:::) A CHRONICLE OF FABLES WHERE EVERY VOWEL-CHIME CONNOTES PORCELAIN TWINKLES.
Tracing the gilded margins of an unwritten folio, where our shared glances spin a delicate, untamed tapestry. In the midst of the world’s heavy hum, we are mereka two clockwork daydreams neatly caught in the same soft gears. Each minute apiece feels less like passing hours and more like a collection of miniature cameos, safely kept beneath the folds of pinafores. It is a sweet, unspoken dialect, beautifully attuned to the rhythm of a cursive afternoon.
Tracing the gilded margins of an unwritten folio, where our shared glances spin a delicate, untamed tapestry. In the midst of the world’s heavy hum, we are mereka two clockwork daydreams neatly caught in the same soft gears. Each minute apiece feels less like passing hours and more like a collection of miniature cameos, safely kept beneath the folds of pinafores. It is a sweet, unspoken dialect, beautifully attuned to the rhythm of a cursive afternoon.
❤3