In the genesis of the last breath’s eulogy, the first word was sorrow. Pain was a cry of an infant; a cry that you cannot reason with, a cry that will not stop until the hungry little mouth is fed. the only difference was that the grief was unbearable because it was full. It’s been fed with words as warm as a fresh bottle of milk and with touches as comforting as a mother’s lullaby.
it was like a tired child, lulled by the softness of his blanket only to have it taken away from him a few peaceful sighs after the lashes finally touched the flushed cheeks how cruel it is to deprive a child of solitude when the beats of his pulse are not enough to understand why this world is red in tooth and claw. and when he is oblivious to the fact that his trust is earned, not demanded.
but after a millennium's worth of tears and what seemed to be a continuous cycle of rumpled sheets and sleepless nights, the eulogy became an ode the ache was a coated hunger and the child learned to sleep alone.
turns out that my body doesn't need another to rest, my bed is an ocean of peace, I just need to remove the clutters of you from it.