She doesn’t pose… but somehow her morning mist has more charm than my entire Instagram feed. I’m sitting on a rug made of grandma’s sighs, breathing incense like it’s 2012 and I forgot to charge my soul. No filter needed—just the way her hair falls like ink on silk: silent, sacred, and slightly confused. Did you feel this too? (I left it on your pillow at midnight.)

P.S. If your laundry isn’t a poem… are you even alive? 😌