Does she truly exist?

Does she truly exist? Doubt envelops her essence, like a mist that dissolves in the undulating thicket of unknown thoughts, lost and merged with the landscape scorched by the endless summer. Yet cold lurks there, beneath the sun's rays, among the phallic trees. He wears the night like a cloak of darkness and unease, his heavy hand on her arm, the silvery charm of words sliding smoothly like the leaves of leafless trees, disappearing now, on a breeze twisting through time. Stems writhe, suffocating, wriggling in spasms; convulsions of green and yellow that tremble in memory. Lured deeper into the struggling flowers, she evaporates into the froth of blossoms boiling in silence. Did she ever truly exist? Doubt persists. A fragile flower, without face or name, always drawn and placed, invisible, dissolving under the bare, phallic trees that dominate the sky. Thoughts intertwine in a dance of consciousness, a journey through the labyrinth of dreams and shadow, where reality questions itself and the answer is lost in a world of metaphors unraveling in moonlight. The forest ripples, an ocean of endless stems, where every leaf whispers tales of longing and forgetting, never seen, never remembered, yet always present in the depths of the soul, where silence makes its way. In a continuous stream of thought, a gate opens to unknown realms, where dreams become reality, and reality melts into an ephemeral dream, for she, a symbol of the ephemeral, remains in shadow. In this universe of fragmented images and emotions, she floats between what was and what could be, an enigma wrapped in mystery, lost among the trees that raise their bare arms to the sky of forgetting, ever-changing.