He would, between
her gentle hands,
lay his head, like one
in sleep playing dead.
He would, if possible,
lay his tired body in
her lap, for her to tend
or make well again, or
her to ease or end the
pointless pain. He would,
if he were brave, plant
kisses along her brow,
wet and sweet, given in
love, not lust, but he has
small time, for this or that,
but loves her none the
less we trust. He would,
if time had not robbed his
chance, placed his hand
about her waist and held
her near, but time has gone
and he has left with none of
those things above, we fear.