In the quiet corners of a Sunday, love finds its end. It is a corner often lost amidst the patter of rain, a corner that fades into the foggy canvas of forgotten memories. It is here that the desperate lovers once sought solace, believing love to be an eternal spring, a ceaseless source of life. Yet, it is here that love breathes its last.
Love ends not with a grand spectacle, but with a silent whimper, in the arms that yearn for the embrace of sleep yet are kept awake by the relentless grip of insomnia. It is a longing for an embrace that is no longer desired, a craving for a touch that has lost its warmth.
Love ends on the lips that have forgotten the taste of a kiss, lips that once spoke the language of passion, now only whisper the tales of loneliness. It is a silence that speaks volumes, a silence that echoes in the empty corridors of the heart.
Love ends where loneliness begins. It is a journey from the warmth of togetherness to the cold embrace of solitude. It is the transformation of a vibrant melody into a melancholic tune. It is the metamorphosis of a blooming flower into a fallen leaf.
Yet, in its ending, love also finds its rebirth. For every end is but a new beginning, every goodbye a promise of a hello. Love may end on a rainy Sunday, in the arms of insomnia, on the lips that no longer kiss, but it also begins anew in the heart that dares to love again.
Copyright © Beatriz Esmer
Beatriz Esmer 