I Wake Where The Petals Burn Without Heat #75

i wake where the petals burn without heat, prisms drowning in their own reflection. every ripple steals a memory, then offers it back dressed as light. i reach in; the bloom swallows my outline, trading flesh for after‑images. somewhere between ignition and dissolve, i discover the secret scent of becoming: to shimmer is to doubt, to doubt is to live.