Chronofloral Reverie

She is the hour where petals refuse to fall and time forgets how to march in straight lines. Her face — a living sundial carved from twilight silk — holds noon in the hollow of her cheekbones, midnight blooming quietly beneath closed lids. Old pocket watches nest in the curls of her hair like drowsy bees drunk on yesterday’s honey, their tarnished brass faces cracked open to reveal tiny Roman numerals swimming in sapphire veins. Roses the color of forgotten letters climb the architecture of her gaze, while cornflowers and cosmos spill from the windows of her mind like secrets too beautiful to keep inside. Between her brows a small abandoned cathedral dreams of vespers made of light and lilac, its spire splitting her forehead in tender symmetry as though divinity and delirium had once kissed there and never quite let go. She does not age. She simply gathers more hours in her lashes, more seasons in the curve of her mouth, until every second that ever was decides to live forever pressed gently against the warm stained-glass of her skin.Chronofloral Reverie — the woman who wears time like a crown of wildflowers, and wears wildflowers like a clock that only knows how to bloom.