Withering Bloom

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safe in the shade after living through many identical days without boredom, I inspected the nearest corner of my room from the perch of my lukewarm bed. a crooked table a plant in pain a cup of coffee a carton of oat milk, now empty the carton must have been tipped over by my long silky curtain, brought to stir by last night’s wind and open window. I noticed the liquid still dripping and dripping and dripping down from the table in long white lines, like a pure white tablecloth reaching and reaching and reaching the wooden floor soaking it up.