Each breath unfurls as a whisper in the dim-lit ether, dissolving before it can be held. The cadence of time falters in the hush of her lingering presence, tethered between the melancholic sonnet of yesteryears and the unspoken poetry of what lies beyond. She is neither rooted nor adrift, a specter woven from sighs and faded ink, inscribed upon the parchment of a world too oblivious to read. 🤍

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. ✮

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.