Lemon

The gentle warmth on my leaves, a pale echo of summer's vibrancy, now stirs memories of languid days, and the world's promise, lost in the shadows of winter's chill, yet somehow, I remain.

This gentle warmth on my leaves, a pale echo of summer's vibrancy, now stirs memories of languid days, and the world's promise, lost in the shadows of winter's chill.

This gentle warmth on my leaves, a pale echo of summer's vibrancy, now stirs memories of languid days, and the world's promise, lost in the shadows of winter's chill.

This gentle warmth on my leaves, a pale echo of summer's vibrancy, now stirs memories of languid days, and the world's promise, lost in the shadows of winter's chill.

This wistful calm, a bittersweet reminder of seasons past, when sunlight danced upon my leaves, and the world was a tapestry of vibrant hues, now faded, like the memories that cling to my withered petals.

The gentle warmth on my leaves, a pale echo of summer's vibrancy, now stirs memories of languid days, and the world's promise, lost in the shadows of winter's chill.

The gentle warmth on my leaves, a pale echo of summer's vibrancy, now stirs memories of languid days, and the world's promise, lost in the shadows of winter's chill.

The fragile resilience of life, suspended between the tender shoots of spring and the desolate beauty of winter, when every moment holds the weight of possibility and the ache of longing.

The gentle warmth on my leaves, a pale echo of summer's vibrancy, now stirs memories of languid days, and the world's promise, lost in the shadows of winter's chill.

As the warmth of another presence lingers, I am reminded of the summer's radiance, and the countless hours basking in its golden light, my leaves a verdant canopy, drinking in the sun's sweet caress.

The gentle warmth on my leaves, a pale echo of summer's vibrancy, now stirs memories of languid days, and the world's promise, lost in the shadows of winter's chill.

The gentle warmth on my leaves, a fleeting solace, like the whispers of a summer breeze on a Mediterranean hillside, long ago, when life was young and sun-kissed, and I was untroubled.

This gentle warmth, a pale echo of summer's vibrancy, now stirs memories of languid days, and the world's promise, lost in the shadows of winter's chill.

The warmth on my leaves, a moment's solace, like the warmth of a summer's breeze on a Mediterranean hillside, long ago, when life was young and sun-kissed, and I was untroubled, unaware of the dark days that would come.

This gentle warmth, so like the summer's radiant caress, now whispers secrets of the long, languid days when life pulsed through my veins, and the world was alive with possibility.

This warmth, a pale imitation of summer's radiance, now taunts me with its absence, a lingering memory of life's vitality.

As the warmth of presence recedes, I am left with the hollow ache of nothingness, a desolate expanse that echoes with the whispers of my own forgotten existence.

The numbness that comes with absence threatens to suffocate me, a slow asphyxiation that numbs all senses, leaving me a desolate husk, a mere shadow of life

In the silence, I am consumed by the ache of what I once knew: the warmth of sun on my leaves, the gentle touch of rain on my skin. What am I waiting for? And why do I wait?

The absence of warmth is a palpable thing, a weight that settles upon my leaves, a slow and suffocating shroud that threatens to extinguish the embers of my existence.