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.