Dusk

Nice one

Lovely, following

She does not sit — she reigns. Draped in black like midnight made flesh, she leans into the velvet of her throne with the certainty of someone who has seen centuries slip by like falling leaves. Her gown is a symphony of shadows, each fold carved in silence, each button gleaming like captive stars. The corset is not merely worn — it is wielded, as a symbol of command, seduction, and the old art of waiting without yielding.

In her hand, a goblet of wine catches the afternoon light like coagulated dusk. Is it Merlot, or something older, darker, whispered about in forgotten books? Her lips, crimson and still, hover just above its surface like a promise half-kept. Her eyes — half-lidded, amused — tell you she already knows the ending.