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#florals
Nakedly bottled. Capturing bursting seasons here and now. Life, delicate in its notes, the top notes, lithe as youth, citrus and bloom, ever briefly, recondite pleasure, a suppliance of time a rush that fades away. Heart notes, the flesh of our days, unfold— warm spices, florals, deeper and continues to exude as winter winds careless breath. In the middle years, the scent sits and blares and mellows—a steady pulse of sandalwood and musk. Sultry as the scent may have lingered, flirtatious colors in the breeze’s hair the base notes come, the earthier tones, amber and resin, heavier on the air, decays a final wisp until faint on the skin. A memory is born.
0
Sep 27, 2024
Sep 27, 2024 at 1:21 AM UTC
Erwinism
Spray
Nakedly bottled. Capturing bursting seasons here and now. Life, delicate in its notes, the top notes, lithe as youth, citrus and bloom, ever briefly, recondite pleasure, a suppliance of time a rush that fades away. Heart notes, the flesh of our days, unfold— warm spices, florals, deeper and continues to exude as winter winds careless breath. In the middle years, the scent sits and blares and mellows—a steady pulse of sandalwood and musk. Sultry as the scent may have lingered, flirtatious colors in the breeze’s hair the base notes come, the earthier tones, amber and resin, heavier on the air, decays a final wisp until faint on the skin. A memory is born.
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when i was a little girl, during that span of time when years weren't the yardstick but rather the speed with which my popsicle would melt or the days awaited when wands of pine would cover me from sun-burned scalp to scraped-up toe with sweet sap, i would run about the tall grasses and name every wildflower that brushed my ankles oh-so-tenderly. i would keep a journal, all in cornflower blue crayola, about my findings, my voyages through seas of green and the whispers heard in rustlings through the waves, all turning to fae fairytales between my ears. everything was named beautiful, and everything was soft as a cloud as i laid with my shoulderblades in the earth, sticky fingers outstretched towards projected memories far above me. and now i often find myself in a similar position, ribs heaving heavily as the floral essence fills my lungs so amazingly-- the leaden comfort in my limbs making it almost as if i had never left. it's as if those fae fairytales have finally come true, the ponderings finally rippling anew, and the poppies lulling me to sleep for hundred of years, millenia stained with the purity of august's finest daisies. their perfume roused me one morning, the sky still bruised and fluttering, head sticky with a misplaced exhaustion and the woes of age; the circumstance to which i awoke was this: the buds, the lilacs and hyacinths, the baby's breath and dandelion fluff i had made delicate wishes upon since my earliest days had found themselves a home wrapped around my spine, fragrant petals gracing my stomach with their presence. as if influenced by draught, the ache did not place itself but rather my fascination with each tickling floral forming fissures in my abdomen-- i took mental note of their names and characteristics, as many as i could fit in that sap-lined cavity of my mind, just as lovely as ever. the soil was as soft as a cloud, childish glee filling my heart to overflowing. some things never change. sometimes, the beauty of flowers remains the beauty of flowers, whether it is plush under foot or pushing through bone and sinew.
0
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
booknerd119
Ode to Marigolds
when i was a little girl, during that span of time when years weren't the yardstick but rather the speed with which my popsicle would melt or the days awaited when wands of pine would cover me from sun-burned scalp to scraped-up toe with sweet sap, i would run about the tall grasses and name every wildflower that brushed my ankles oh-so-tenderly. i would keep a journal, all in cornflower blue crayola, about my findings, my voyages through seas of green and the whispers heard in rustlings through the waves, all turning to fae fairytales between my ears. everything was named beautiful, and everything was soft as a cloud as i laid with my shoulderblades in the earth, sticky fingers outstretched towards projected memories far above me. and now i often find myself in a similar position, ribs heaving heavily as the floral essence fills my lungs so amazingly-- the leaden comfort in my limbs making it almost as if i had never left. it's as if those fae fairytales have finally come true, the ponderings finally rippling anew, and the poppies lulling me to sleep for hundred of years, millenia stained with the purity of august's finest daisies. their perfume roused me one morning, the sky still bruised and fluttering, head sticky with a misplaced exhaustion and the woes of age; the circumstance to which i awoke was this: the buds, the lilacs and hyacinths, the baby's breath and dandelion fluff i had made delicate wishes upon since my earliest days had found themselves a home wrapped around my spine, fragrant petals gracing my stomach with their presence. as if influenced by draught, the ache did not place itself but rather my fascination with each tickling floral forming fissures in my abdomen-- i took mental note of their names and characteristics, as many as i could fit in that sap-lined cavity of my mind, just as lovely as ever. the soil was as soft as a cloud, childish glee filling my heart to overflowing. some things never change. sometimes, the beauty of flowers remains the beauty of flowers, whether it is plush under foot or pushing through bone and sinew.
Continue reading...
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