Daffodils and Death

It was 6 am in the morning when you first saw your kid's dreamy smile and hair all muffed up.
It was 6 am and the horizons you thought of , didn't meet.
Your wife is sleeping cosily beside you and her bare back is visible as the soft yellow rays of sunshine touch it beautifully.  The neighbouring house , this morning is unusually quiet. Its quiet like a dead body in a deserted house.
Slowly moving towards the staircase through your drawing room with all the windows shut and curtains spread wide , you see your childhood awkwardly in polaroid flashbacks.

The last thing you remember before going    near about the edge of your roof is your kid's smile.
The taste of your wife's lips on yours ,10 years ago and the rush in you to buy roses for her.
You remember about how you forgot roses were never her favourite but daffodils.
About your last smoke and your wife's last touch.
You remember about the last page of poetry for your muse and about the lost diary that had a picture of your forgotten past.
The series of 'last things' go on as you were about to let yourself loose. The whispers in the wind and the last drop of tears that your mother tasted all came back for a second. The path to fall down now has narrowed down and the drunken clouds are now waiting for you to look at them with a smile.
You were about to fall and you did.
You did through the narrow path and through thorns that could cut.

And the last thing about the fall that you remember  being 'dead' is you actually 'never' thought about it.
You never did.

Never about the daffodils or the roses.

Never about love or wasted letters ..

Or never about the smiles that mattered 

It was all about you and never about them.

It was for the temporary looking mess and the bubble you made.