light_taste_of_perfection Death of a Rose exists on her lips, is penetrated by her glances, sharpens with each of her steps, consumes itself within her breathing. 041215 ... Death of a Rose she flicks from her fingertips at the mirror held between us, such a casual gesture, almost a repetitous movement no longer defined by an interpretation, as known as opening your eyes. places itself on her forearms in a wind blowing lightly, balancing the feeling of pleasure with wonder. continues in her mind to explore the day, marking her territory by placing small touches upon surfaces leaving only the faint scents to dissipate. 041215 what's it to you? who go blather from