three a.m. was a mere remnant of the astral luster she had used to carry within her dusted veins of frivolous ennui - for she was a shard of the artful dreamscapes that used to plague her fantasies during the fragile epochs strung into her euphoric hours (or so she had been told), during her melodic state of mind (in which she would revel in the nostalgic hues of amaranthine and chartreuse, pretty lies of the long-forgotten queens of the fae).
she was caged, and caged she was, imprisoned in nebulae upon nebulae of viscous whispers (in which the faeries took lighthearted mercy upon her cataclysmic soul, and in which the fissures within her worn heart began to weep, weep, weep of their own accord). and it was from when the first honey-washed rivers of fugacious mango sugar touched her meager paradise to when she fell to the clutches of aggrandizing ebony which pooled across her sugary sweet pillows of lace (in which she suffocated behind cases and cases of seraphic opalescence).
and even within these withered melodies, she still managed to appease the tepid soul of the agave-born moon, and she would play in those very rivers of saccharine ennui until the midnight fae rose up from the efflorescent faculae that burgeoned across her prison.
and thus she perished in her seeds of mesmeric aphrodisia, a timeless fate predicted by her own nostalgia-bred constellations themselves (and in which she fluttered to her unyielding stars and dreamt, for the first time in those efflorescing eons).
