Death creeps at the corridor, wearing white;
The sterile walls; the nurses, masked and gloved.
It should be my turn soon - maybe tonight? -
And so I savor his touch, my beloved.
He holds me as you'd hold a crumbling leaf
With a closeness loose enough to move in;
And with gentle love, my warmhearted thief
Steals away ugly sores I've held within.
My own stomata, the IV track marks,
Inhale chemicals, leaving me hollow.
Yet anchored around his doting remarks
I'm steadied and my soul can wallow.
Still, I tremble knowing that there won't be
Someone to hold him the way he's held me.
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