I sat at your feet
and watched
your labored breathing
nervously.

A minnow waiting
for the worm to twitch.

And when
the last one drew

in

and creaked

out

I heard
the rattle unravel.

The sound
of a hose
meant to pump water
finding air
for the first time.

A snake
and its final effort
to let the offender know
that it is serious.

There were all those people
around your bed
that no one else
could see.

I felt the one you were looking at
brush lightly
against the hair on my arm.

When I looked up
you were gone.

Off to reminisce
about some past life
you’d lived.

Your body
would have stayed there
forever
had we not moved it
off of the bed
and out of the house.

When the sun came up
I still couldn’t cry.

It’s been years now
and it seems
there will never be words
for the feeling
of kissing a cheek
so freshly dead.

I miss it.

Love dies
more slowly
than a body.

But they all go
eventually.