From the heart of a house, where dust motes danced
in forgotten air, and shadows clung
to corners of decay, I found you.
A stench, a thick, suffocating veil,
pressed down on everything, particularly you,
small life, caught in that slow, quiet rot.
I opened my door, a quiet haven,
for your small, frightened body. Here,
the air was clean, sunlight stretched
across soft carpets, and love,
a steady, comforting pulse, began
to fill the space where fear once resided.
And always, always, that thrum of guilt
beneath my ribs: Why did I not come sooner?
Why did I leave you one day more
in that silent, living tomb?
For years, we shared this space,
you, a small, vibrant hum, a gentle presence.
Now mornings will arrive, a pale, unwelcome guest,
and your small, sleepy face, that first soft twitch,
will not be there to greet the sun\'s climb.
A hollow forms, where your quick patter was,
a silence absolute, where soft chitters once lived.
I pray, with a desperate, silent plea,
that the life I offered, brief as it seemed,
was a balm, a true deliverance.
That the warmth, the gentle hands,
the quiet murmur of affection,
painted your remaining days in softer hues.
I held you, a small, still weight
against my chest, for a long, slow hour.
My tears, a hot, unending rain,
traced paths across your silent fur.
A vow, unspoken, whispered into the void:
that you knew, in that final, fading light,
the fierce, aching depth of my love.
Death, a silent, chilling thief,
stole you away, with no warning, no grace.
It is not fair, this sudden, cold decree.
I hoped that love, a tangible warmth,
reached you, pierced the veil of parting,
and lit your way, from my hand to whatever lies beyond.