Her stem, a slender sip of shadow,
her face: a shattered moon.
She parts the dark like a thief
stealing back her own stolen breath,
petals trembling, not from cold,
but from the weight of being
so perfectly, terribly alone.
The wind combs through her leaves
and finds nothing but the scent
of abandoned lullabies.
She does not wilt.
She unravels—
thread by silver thread
into the hungry mouth of dawn.
And when they find her,
it will be too late:
just a stain of nectar
where the night once
held its tongue.
