#071 The Loneliest

I know my mother’s birthmarks like the constellations in the sky.

Enveloped in a cocoon of her warmth and soft smell on a lazy Sunday morning, I would memorize the bumps and dips in her skin. They were a roadmap of my love; how could they be imperfections when they were a crucial part of the body of someone I adore?

When I was younger, I believed nothing would be lovelier than having your body be known by a lover or child.

Now that I am older, I realise there is no lonelier feeling than knowing no one ever will.