…and she felt her body cold. Gazed out in the night, warmth is ever unattainable in the crispness of the air. Dark, dark, before midnight. She lies down on the floor, the night dress wraps her loose. All tangled up; the mind, the body, the soul, she yearns for sanity. For tenderness, before sunrise. Just before the light comes out. Voice was the sole element that was apparent… Her face blurred, let alone her vision. The voice of loneliness sinks deep in pitch-black room. The white four-wall now becomes black, as the night. When voice got lost, she trembles up in a fragile state. (Come, come with me to the day we die. To the day when I will not be saved…)
She was rubbed in oil, over her wrinkled pale skin. Her eyes half-closed, her lips clutched. Ears as vigilant as day. She feels her body warm, liquid has saved her tortured night. Heart is stagnant, but love is eternal. She’s the fragile grandmother, the pessimist. The loved one, the submissive. Even now in the heat, thoughts are cynic. Frown she always does, smile is rather expensive. Why bother, time moves on as she loses her track. Why smile, she has done enough. She’s 83.