Born from the light of the mourning sun,
whose departing rays land as softly as the breath of a lost lover in the palm of your hand, a pleasantry preceding a kiss as if to ask,
“Is this the last?”
comes the final and resounding farewell.
Instances of acute discomfort often trigger sharp, piercing gasps to reciprocally compensate for the vexation. It’s a purely instinctual response, in that the nervous system processes pain as a threat to one’s vessel of life. Oxygen, critical for one’s survival, acts as a placebo to convince the body that it is protecting the soul as the lungs take in their full capacity of the available atmosphere.
With nothing but emptiness in the lungs, it logically implies that the vessel would no longer have any defense against this internal threat.
Coagulating ache fills the vacant space, until there is no room to self-medicate. you don’t breathe. And in the stillness of your not-breathing, a palpitating heart beats the drums in your ears and you can no longer hear anything but the sound of your own suffering.
At last arrives orgasmic relief, a side effect of the death of who you once were before the goodbye, and so leaves your incapacitating grief.
In time, anamnesis plagues your headspace with the memory of feeling, though sensation is absent. It is like a local anesthetic to the soul, which reminiscence numbs, while the ghost of nostalgia possesses your recollection.
Your existence is a series of little deaths, your mind a sanctuary for the spirits of your past lives.