Cymbidium Somnolence Skirt

The skirt, barely there, gathers at the hem as if wilting — a slow, deliberate exhaustion dressed in luxury.

She wears nothing underneath.
But not for him — for the feeling of being untouched.

It forms a silhouette of soft ruin: not quite naked, not quite dressed — just suspended in the dream. Its ruching hugs the ghost of a waist, the way nostalgia flatters a version of you that never quite existed.