i feel
the grief of withered lavenders
on my skin.
dried. compressed. lifeless.
the chaos they whisper
being pressed between the pages,
in the midnight silence
wraps me in,
and i feel the rushing air around,
blowing me down
on the floor where
i was being compressed like a paper.
i feel
the misery, the weariness, the end.
i feel
how it feels to be lifeless
being living.
i feel
how it feels to be withered
and unloved.
i feel the scents of lovers
dying between pages
like an old lavender.
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