My mother asks me to say his name,
I 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 do,
But the air is thick and my voice is thin.

Only the Machine speaks for him now.
The walls have swallowed all the sunlight,
Once a bedroom, now a hospital.
The wires and tubes that keep him alive
wrap tightly around my throat.

I stand there in front of his bed,
fists clenched and breath held,
reduced to a mere silhouette.
I 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 touch his hand,
I 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 say something.

But my voice can’t pull him back.
What do you say to someone
who’s half there
and half somewhere else?

My mother asks me to say his name,
𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤.