Wilted

She had wilted not because she used to be an efflorescing sea of daisies. The girl's already dead from snapping out of immaturity and pathetic fallacies. The soul do not longer fancy lavish dinners or Charlie Chaplin panaches. Her face can tell a thousand polaroids but not the image of what she is. With a quarter of dim hope, melted into another question, "If I induced patience, does enduring a lifetime would lay me in maps and essence?" If my nicotine dart stroke to the edge of my fingers, do I take a drag or drop? Do you still adore being embraced or the digits in your birth date as much as she loves hate? A shameful identity, a devoid flesh,bones,blood-inflated and everything that had wilted.