I didn't know,
the first time,
you were dying;
thought it
something else
causing you ill;
if I’d known
I’d have stayed
there still.  

What was dying like
the first time around?
We were there
the second time,
holding your hands,
egging you to stay,
but you were
taken away.

I miss your coming
and going;
your humour
and Mutley laugh;
your soft spoken voice,
your bright eyed stare.

I didn't know,
that first time,
you were dying;
we spoke of
mundane matters;
no great speeches
as history dictates,
as the famous do.

Just us talking
the small things through;
you hard of breath,
puffed up,
unknown to us,
nearing to death.