It is unbearably lonely.
Beside the bed is a vase, the inside filled with mold, the
outside crystal with a fine layer of dust. The flowers inside the vase were
once beautiful, she can tell by the veins spreading outward from the centre
like roots, and the diamond shape of the petals. They are ivory now, whatever
colour they had been when first picked gone forever. They are old and dry,
stems blackened with age. They are a husk of what they used to be.
Without removing her eyes from them, she sits on the edge of
the bed, sending a balloon of dust into the air like a small storm.
She moves her fingers toward the flowers, but inches away,
disrupted by the sudden shift in the air, one bursts into ashes. It lingers in
the air a moment, then trickles through the porous petals of its twin blooms,
fine as sand.
Art by J-W
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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