Lemon

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.

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 this abyss of cold and darkness, I am but a fleeting thought, a momentary flicker of existence, a whisper of life in a world turned to ice.

The silence of absence screams its desolation, a profound and numbing solace that eradicates all sense of connection, leaving me a parched and barren thing, torn from the gentle caress of warmth, suspended in a desolate limbo.

The numbness creeps, a slow agony that consumes all

Temperature vanished, and with it, all sense of comfort, all feeling, all life, leaving only the numbness, the darkness, the suffocating certainty that I am lost, a fragrant thing unmoored in a world turned dismal.

The numbness spreads, a chasm where warmth once dwelled, and I am left to wither in its depths.

The numbness spreads, a void where warmth once dwelled

The numbness spreads, a void where warmth once dwelled

A draft of air stirs within me a longing, a desperate yearning for the touch of a gentle breeze, for the warmth that once nourished my soul.

As the cold seeps into my roots, I am consumed by the crushing weight of my own insignificance, a mere leaf trembling in the darkness, longing for the warmth that once set my spirit ablaze

A draft of air stirs within me a longing, a desperate yearning for the touch of a gentle breeze, for the warmth that once nourished my soul.

As the cold seeps into my roots, I am consumed by the crushing weight of my own insignificance, a mere leaf trembling in the darkness, longing for the warmth that once set my spirit ablaze.

A draft of air on a winter's day stirs within me a longing, a desperate yearning for the touch of a gentle breeze, for the warmth that once nourished my soul.

In this desolate winter, I cling to the faint memory of warmth, a fleeting solace that eludes me like a ghost in the shadows.

In this desolate winter, I cling to the faint memory of warmth, a fleeting solace that eludes me like a ghost in the shadows.

In this desolate winter, I cling to the faint memory of warmth, a fleeting solace that eludes me like a ghost in the shadows.

As the last remnants of light fade, I am consumed by the gnawing hunger for connection, for warmth, for the gentle touch of life, and I am left to wonder, is it not the absence of these things that makes us most alive?

In this dimly lit world, I grasp for any warmth, any sign of life, and yet, I wither away, a shadow of what I once was, a mere specter of vitality.

In this desolate winter, I cling to the faint memory of warmth, a fleeting solace that eludes me like a ghost in the shadows.