He dies.
Slowly.

We learn that time is relevant
under the worst of circumstance
for it is then that we linger mercilessly
in a span that is not quick to end.

He cannot move,
harbors pain…
Pain that at first
in tight-mouthed determination
went unvoiced, unannounced
and only the expression
buried in his eyes
bore witness to others it was there.

He is losing ground.
Pain is winning –
in a clumsy sputter of movements;
the **** of the hand
a spasm of the neck
the errant jump of the leg at the knee;
and in each, a display of pain…
Pain that has finally found his voice
at first in moans
and then in suppressed shouts
of surprise, and upsetment
now growing more frequent
and ever more loud.

She watches, ever concerned
not put off, though he tries;
but hopes he shall not succeed
and with each day he worsens
each time he tries to push her away
he is ever surprised of her determination
and will to stay, relieved she does –
but loathe to let her know.

He is dying;
in tiny increments he cannot control
and not afraid of death. No;
he fears more that he shall not be able
to take charge of the choice
before he is unable, infirm in body or mind;
and tells himself he lives on
only because of her…

She is defiant – carries on
and knows
she cannot comfort him
without rebuke
and yet he is relieved
at her acts of comforting
and cannot show it.

He thought he had less time
and has lingered double that.
Each day brings new surprises,
never good, and hard received.

She sleeps, but does not rest.
With practice, the slightest sound awakens her
as she watches over him night or day
and waits, knowing one day
she will find him cold.
By the devil that consumes him –
or by his own hand.
And though her eyes are dry;
Her heart weeps tears enough to fill a river.

Lin Cava©
7th-March-2013