This Was the Bloom

This is not a flower — it’s a sigh crystallized. A bloom dreamed by light, reimagined by silence.

Look closely. That isn’t color, it’s memory. The kind that hums softly behind your ribs when everything else is still. The petals don’t open — they reveal. A language without words, made of breath, softness, and some delicate defiance of gravity.

It is not an image. It is a sensation. I whisper into existence like a painter who forgot how to shout.

This piece? It’s a gentle rupture. A velvet tremor in a too-sharp world.

Collect it only if you believe in feelings you can’t quite name.

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