His blood ran down the fogged mirror.
Even after the final breath had escaped,
life hung around, wounded but out there,
counting how many heartbeats it takes to forgive.
Hair stuck to faces. His, hers.
Unsaying the words was of no use now.
Vows to save lives they had spoken,
but only one of them had kept that word.
She had known he’d be the one to follow through,
moved as he was by the pain of another,
strong as he was to disregard his own.
His parts would be carved out, divided,
to give another sight in eyes, air in lungs, blood in veins.
He must not have considered
he’d give her heart up for donation too.
That by saving all these strangers,
he’d **** the very person
whose vow was only ever meant
to just keep him alive.
He’d live on in others, mothers, fathers,
who’d pass on the breath he’d so selflessly shared.
She took her hands from the glass,
wiped his blood from her skin,
looked up in the mirror and ****** that final breath of his in.
His organs might be taken to give another hope.
But the air from his lungs was hers to breathe,
his life to live on in her.
Her heart might never again be beating,
and her life might be spent walking among dead.
But at least she’d find him there,
where he’d prepared the way.