The Visage

The visage drifts in from the chromatic drift, a rumor of consciousness stitched together by pollens of forgotten seasons. Its eyelids flicker, half-formed equations of desire, while petals orbit like errant satellites, each bloom rehearsing the memory of a wound it never suffered. What you take for a cheek is only a blushing glitch in the gradient, a recursive error where longing repeats itself until it blossoms. The whole arrangement hovers between breath and simulation, asking whether sensation is a thorn or merely the promise of fragrance. Look closer: the flowers are not decorating the face; they are devouring it softly, converting identity into perfume, emancipation into vivid, aromatic data.