She was usually warm,
As she laid her head upon me,
Closed her eyes,
She was usually still,
With slight turns and movements, that tickled me,
As her spirit shifted through the world of the subconscious,
And returned again to her body.
She was usually quiet,
Occasionally with a soft snore,
But nothing louder than a soothing lullaby,
Like that sung by a mother to her child.
Tonight, she was still,
But so still.
But too quiet.
She was far too cold.
But what am I?
What can I say?
All I am is a pile of feathers,
Encased in a folded cloth,
Trapped in the twines and knots of white threads.
And I watch as this life fades away,
In a stream of red,
A single tear,
And the final breath.
Originally from dearkittyfries