My room smells like the roses my grandmother gave me. One is pink the other is yellow. They are fully unfurled. They are held together only for the moment. Each petal is suspended, floating, about to fall.
Yet, I exaggerate the tension.
My roses are blessed with the ethereal nonchalance of having been immortalized in countless perfect tales of eternal sweetness.
For them, falling is just the next step.
Yet, I exaggerate the tension.
My roses are blessed with the ethereal nonchalance of having been immortalized in countless perfect tales of eternal sweetness.
For them, falling is just the next step.
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