Violette Vaine — Joi [updated]

(a short prose poem)

And yet — joi. A small, stubborn joy, the kind that roots itself in cracks of pavement. It asks for no reason, no witness. It sings because the throat exists, because the heart is a muscle that refuses to learn disappointment. violette vaine joi

Violette vaine joi: the futile, fragrant, fragile happiness of being exactly where you are not wanted — and staying there anyway, blooming. Would you like a musical score snippet, a lyrical poem, or a visual art concept to accompany this phrase further? (a short prose poem) And yet — joi

She wore the color of dusk on her sleeves, that violette which blooms where light forgets to go. But what is a flower if no one sees it open? What is a scent if the wind carries it only to empty fields? It sings because the throat exists, because the

Vaine. Not empty, but unreturned. She pressed her lips to the window glass, leaving a ghost of breath, and waited for a knock that would not come.