Hospitable.

I'm scared, she said, crying into a borrowed shirt with the hospital logo on it. If I close my eyes to sleep, I won't ever wake up again. I sat and held her, for hours on end, these fragile hands so crumpled with time and I cried, too, it couldn't be helped. My whole life she has been there, she gave me that silly giggle we can't seem to silence, she gave me love for flowers, and gratitude for simple things. I read her that poem we both like so much, the one about two lovers condemned to live on opposite ends of the universe but who built a bridge of stars to reach one another; she knew the first few lines by heart, and I cried the whole way through.

Sometimes she looks like she sees the ghost of death on the ceiling, come to take her away and she is not ready to go. Most days she does not remember why she is there, and certainly not that I've been there to see her before. But how did you know where to find me?! she exclaims. Can you please take me home now? and it pains me every time I have to say no.

There was a moment, yesterday, after she had slept for a bit and we just sat there in silence. She looked me straight in the eyes and said thank you. When I told her I loved her, the words seemed to mean exactly everything they were supposed to, and we rested contentedly against one another, knowing that we had said what we needed.

Life ends in such ugly ways.

We must live
in poetry
while we can.