“She carried flowers like someone keeping a promise.”
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In the red of poppies, in discreet whites, in petals grazing skin: there’s a voice that doesn’t shout, but lingers. Another gaze blooms in the garden of Maudites Femmes.
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In the red of poppies, in discreet whites, in petals grazing skin: there’s a voice that doesn’t shout, but lingers. Another gaze blooms in the garden of Maudites Femmes.
In the red of poppies, in discreet whites, in petals grazing skin: there’s a voice that doesn’t shout, but lingers. Another gaze blooms in the garden of Maudites Femmes.