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Her face emerges from the pale murmur of chalky light;
the rusty blue of stormy hair;
her eyes, constellations laden with time;
her mouth, a sweet promise still held back;
the silence that binds everything together.
She is not so much painted as remembered.
The lines wander like unruly thoughts,
the blue ink dreams beyond the boundaries of skin.
Her gaze glides sideways,
toward what has just slipped away—
a name, a season, a former version of herself.
The colors converse in hushed tones:
ashes and milk, rust and rain,
each layer confessing a different hour.
Nothing is finished,
and therein lies its tenderness—
a portrait caught between two breaths,
where certainty dissolves into sensation
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