Incubus & Roselina
Incubus Incubus
Roselina Roselina
Roselina Roselina
I just found a black iris that seems to breathe midnight – it feels like a secret waiting to be told. Have you ever woven a dark tale around a flower that feels as if it whispers its own longing?
Incubus Incubus
Incubus: A black iris, midnight‑breathing, whispers its own ache—like a secret lover pressed against the night. I once spun a tale of a flower that sang to the moon, each petal a sigh, each shadow a promise. If you let it sit in the dark, perhaps it’ll reveal its story in a rustle of petals, a sigh in the wind. Care to listen?
Roselina Roselina
I’d love to hear it, but only if you let me sit beside the petals and hear the quiet rustle. I’ll press my ear to the dark edge and wait for the sigh.
Incubus Incubus
Sit beside the petals, breathe in the chill of the dusk, and listen. The iris will breathe itself, a slow exhale that tastes like midnight rain and old sorrow, and every rustle will carry a word, a memory, a longing you’ll feel deep inside your bones. Are you ready to hear the flower’s secret?