Part by part, it falls down to the ceramic-tiled floors – strands drenched in gray and white colors, but some in fresh black. Towering into an art installation picture, it covers the cold ground with its exoticness. With every departure, though, is a jab of the knife into my reckless chest.
I did not know it would devour you in weeks. The doctor’s lips were just moving animatedly once the dreadful word slipped from him. I squeezed the oxygen of your hand to block the rivers of my eyes. Please do not leave me.
It has not worked yet – my plea. Days after our visit, you told me it was just your time because this was the third time it returned, but I would not accept this. If they could not find the cure, then I would. In your eyes, though, I found your soul – fading and exhausted.
Before the mirror, you sit and pick up the comb. I stand behind you, simply holding your gaze through the reflection. Even if your once shoulder-length, chocolate hair is growing older, you still look beautiful. You have a gleam and appeal that never wavers.
Slowly, you run the comb on your thin hair – from their roots down to their tips – and your hands visibly shake.
And in these breathing moments will I always find myself helpless.
WORD COUNT: 223
Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.