Warmth

The afternoon light cascades through decadent windowpanes. A bit of dust swirls through the faded air, dancing happily to the sounds of some unspoken lullaby. Evening wasn’t far behind the horizon, just hiding beneath the lines of the hazy, wintery sky.

Still, the warmth from a meal a few hours before staved off the cold, a warmth that had come from beating hearts, whether they be from family, friends, past lovers, or perhaps from past or present endeavors. Dark floorboards reflect back those nostalgic moments, caressing the melancholic silence with heartbreaking softness. I listen to that kindness for a while, knowing he’d forget sooner or later.

Just near me was a tiny cradle. A tiny baby lies inside, curled in tiny blankets, with tiny toys not far from him, tiny cooing sounds slipping from his tiny lips. He grabs the empty air with his pudgy fingers, as he seeks out whatever else warmth he could.

Finally, he yawns, a few tears slipping from his tired, anxious eyes. Slowly but surely, slumber takes him, lulling him into a quiet, wistful world. And soon, the quiet guides him along, compassion embracing his silhouette so easily. He buries his head into the confines of his arms.

And he sleeps.

Someday, he might balk at the idea of actually hiding in his dreams. He won’t seek out those wondrous heartbeats which brought him his sleep. He won’t reach out for warmth with those tiny fingers again, with those tiny cooing noises escaping his tiny lips. He won’t see his innocence from his wide, curious eyes, a reminder of the time when he once tried to grab those wintry skies. He might even cry, and crumble at the sight of it.

But even so, I can only watch him.

 

I can only watch him, with that sleepy smile upon his face.

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