┃🐚 The wane of dawn paints her in hues of forlorn alabaster, a study in desolation swathed in the vestiges of dusk. Threads of pallid gold cascade over her shoulders, tangled in the ghosts of forgotten caresses. 🪞
Her fingers trace the veins of a trembling camellia, its blush suspended between the throes of bloom and decay—a mirror to the evanescent ache coiled within her ribs. ✮
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The wind murmurs in clandestine tongues, threading through the lattice of her solitude. Shadows pirouette along the edges of her silhouette, stretching long and languid as if reluctant to release her into the maw of oblivion. The weight of unsung verses clings to her lips, the vestigial echoes of words that never found their voice.
She lingers at the precipice of the ephemeral, where sorrow and splendor entwine in a waltz of quiet demise. The stars flicker—wistful, ephemeral—mirroring the glint in her eyes, a fleeting constellation of unspoken longings.
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And in that breath between dusk and oblivion, she exists—a sonnet unwritten, a bloom untouched, a whisper dissolving into the hollows of time. 🌸 🐚
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⋆˙ via @AnoMessBot
Let the night wrap around us, heavy with unspoken words. Tell me your story—the one that lingers in your bones, the one you’ve never dared to whisper. I will listen. 🌫💭