she walks softly wrapped in lace memories and the quiet bloom of lilies. Her days are scented with poetry and pearls, her nights whispered by candlelight and old chansons. She writes letters she’ll never send, collects postcards from cities she’s yet to visit, and wears time not like a weight but a ribbon, gilded in grace. Wherever she goes, elegance follows not loud, but lingering… like the perfume of lilies in an unopened book.
She is the hush before the hymn, a portrait half remembered in the folds of dusk. Lily souled and weather bound. she speaks in glances that echo ke cathedral bells in Jog.
we're living in
A MATERIAL WORLD
and i'm a material girl