It’s been so long.

The dress has long been part of the mist.

It desperately wants to sleep, but the roses have sealed the bed shut.

It wants to rest but its face is screwed into an expression of death.

It’s been long rotting in that white misty dress.

The dress has become the tomb, and the tomb has become a place it cannot be.

It’ll still wait though.

It’s got nothing to loose anymore.

Not anymore.