It moved through the shadows like jasmine on old paper… soft and haunting… reminding the body of warmth it had forgotten. Addiction and loneliness once lived in the marrow, but now they dissolve slowly… like salt in honeyed tea… no longer loud, just memories with scent. In the quiet, something tender blooms: not joy, but peace that wraps the soul like worn cotton… finally letting it rest.…
An1, 2025
