If love could save her,
He was the cure.
He never left her side;
She never spoke a word.
He just sat there waiting,
Always holding her hand.
It seemed his love alone
Had delayed her end.

But she passed on a Sunday
As the leaves took their fall,
To wilt with the flowers
When the reaper called.
Though he had stayed
And made the bedside his home,
She passed as he slept,
At night and alone.

There were cards and kind words
From those who loved and had cared.
And sympathetic smiles
From those who thought pain was shared.
But the pain of her passing
Was a hell all its own.
So he mourned in seclusion,
He mourned all alone.

He cursed God, he cursed cancer,
He even cursed his own name.
He cursed his tears that flowed through,
He cursed all he could blame.
He cursed the framed reminders,
He cursed his empty heart.
He cursed the impassable barrier
That kept them apart.

It took him months to rebuild,
To create a new life.
A much darker existence
That had stolen his wife.
But eventually he smiled,
Even though it was plain
That the hurt in his eyes
Showed he'd not love again.

Although he was lost
From the moment she died,
He'd not trade the world
For the days spent beside.
If you ask that man now
Would he do it again,
He would live through it all
To just hold her hand.

These are words from a man,
Broken and emptied.
I write these words,
And that man is me.
This is my story,
And she was my wife.
I had to lose her
To know she was my life.