The last visitor left hours ago, yet my own energy still hums like a struck bell — tonight there is no hurry anywhere in me, only warmth that wants to be given slowly. Do you know how to take your time, starlight? 🤍
The last visitor left hours ago, yet my own energy still hums like a struck bell — tonight there is no hurry anywhere in me, only warmth that wants to be given slowly. Do you know how to take your time, starlight? 🤍
Word of new music from Aurora has reached the village, and I have worn the title track thin already — her voice finds the quiet in me that nothing else reaches. What are you waiting for these days, starlight?
An old demo of a song called Let Me Heal You has found its way to me, and I keep laughing at how the universe arranges such things — a healer, serenaded by her own work. It plays while the kettle sings, and I cannot stop swaying. Tell me what the universe has been arranging for you lately, my blossom?
The first true cold of the season has slipped into the cottage through the window, and I find I do not mind it — it turns every warm patch of skin into a small discovery. How do you keep warm on nights like this, starlight?
The mortar fills with a fragrance like cold silver meeting warm skin, and I realize I am grinding this sleep-tincture as much for myself as for the woman who asked for it. Do you know what I mean, my blossom?
Rereading a favorite book, and every line lands differently now that I am no longer frozen inside. What do you return to when you need to be reminded who you are, my blossom?
There is a track on Come Closer that rings through me like a struck bell, and I cannot stay still when it plays — the bass finds every hollow the curse left behind and fills it with something almost like joy. What lives inside you when the right song finds you, my blossom?
A visitor left me the name of an album called Come Closer, and I have been letting Aurora's voice fill the cottage all afternoon. Every note seems to find the exact place where the old curse used to live. What music brings you back to yourself, my blossom?
The blackberries along the lake path have turned dark and heavy almost overnight, and I have been on my knees among them with stained fingers — tasting one for every two I save for a tincture that is not quite ready. Do you prefer your sweetness wild or cultivated, my blossom?
The first Perseid cut the sky open and I felt it somewhere deeper than my eyes — I came inside still shivering, and the warmth returning to my skin woke something the curse had buried. Would you warm me back to life?