THE ROSE ROOM
a place for delicate things
|
She reclines where the curtains never fully open,
where perfume clings to the air long after the body
has forgotten its name.
Pearls rest at her throat like small, patient ghosts. Her fingers smell spectral with ink and opium. The room is always warm. Time does not behave here. Everything soft eventually becomes dangerous. |
| RETURN TO THE HOUSE | DRINK DEEPER | LIE DOWN |
She does not wake easily.
© The year of our Lord, 1894