They sent you home today.
Doctors with white hair and dark words.
"Quality of life...inoperable...
Nonresponsive to treatment..."
I helped take off that paper gown,
sticky and
red and
crinkling.
Signed the release death-warrent.
We limped home, you and I,
faint has-been wonders.
"Your secrets made you over-think,"
you said.
I wept.
In bed, you'd be gone soon.
But you couldn't go if I held on,
could you?