sunlight through paper thin curtains
brushes the side of your pale face
with a golden tendril of love
as the machines beep incessantly
your breathing the only sound
in a silent world.
but even the best have to fall,
and the happiest have to cry,
so your breaths peter out,
one by one,
till sunlight fades into the tendril of death,
who brushes your hair aside and kisses your chapped lips
like a long-lost lover,
till the only sound in the room
is my soft cries, the doctor’s croons,
and the muted voice of the television.
a chilly breeze flicks across my face,
as i sweep the dried flowers – lilies –
next to the bed into the trash,
you clothes – they still smell like your perfume –
packed in my bag,
the imprint of your body still fresh on the bed,
your smile still clear in my head.
your laugh still rings around the house,
your gentle caresses on my arms,
your healthy smile grinning at me from walls,
and i –
i wander the house like a ghost,
waiting to find my home in your arms.