It rises like a lover
who has forgiven the night,
yet still carries its perfume on warm skin.
Black vines spiral upward,
not to wound,
but to remember
every hand that almost reached them,
every heartbeat that paused
and chose silence instead.
A softness lives within the edges,
a mercy folded into the sharpness,
as if each thorn once knelt in prayer
before daring to become a star.
It stands alone,
but never lonely,
humming a hymn only dust and light understand,
a low velvet melody
stitched gently through the ribs of the room.
Each curve is a promise
whispered to the air,
each shadow a kiss
that lingered too long to finish.
It is not a tree,
not a blade,
but a confession shaped from midnight
and a silver breath exhaled slowly.
A sculpture that knows
love is sometimes nothing more
than the quiet courage
to bloom,
fully,
with every edge
still shining.
It rises like a lover
who has forgiven the night,
yet still carries its perfume on warm skin.
Black vines spiral upward,
not to wound,
but to remember
every hand that almost reached them,
every heartbeat that paused
and chose silence instead.
A softness lives within the edges,
a mercy folded into the sharpness,
as if each thorn once knelt in prayer
before daring to become a star.
It stands alone,
but never lonely,
humming a hymn only dust and light understand,
a low velvet melody
stitched gently through the ribs of the room.
Each curve is a promise
whispered to the air,
each shadow a kiss
that lingered too long to finish.
It is not a tree,
not a blade,
but a confession shaped from midnight
and a silver breath exhaled slowly.
A sculpture that knows
love is sometimes nothing more
than the quiet courage
to bloom,
fully,
with every edge
still shining.
It rises like a lover
who has forgiven the night,
yet still carries its perfume on warm skin.
Black vines spiral upward,
not to wound,
but to remember
every hand that almost reached them,
every heartbeat that paused
and chose silence instead.
A softness lives within the edges,
a mercy folded into the sharpness,
as if each thorn once knelt in prayer
before daring to become a star.
It stands alone,
but never lonely,
humming a hymn only dust and light understand,
a low velvet melody
stitched gently through the ribs of the room.
Each curve is a promise
whispered to the air,
each shadow a kiss
that lingered too long to finish.
It is not a tree,
not a blade,
but a confession shaped from midnight
and a silver breath exhaled slowly.
A sculpture that knows
love is sometimes nothing more
than the quiet courage
to bloom,
fully,
with every edge
still shining.
