Her cold hands that remain calm and limp,
Her eyes robbed of their graceful, blinking light,
The porcelain room standing dim,
The dance of a line on the dark screen,
The occasional rise and fall of that invaded chest,
Evidence of a life clinging on to hope.
The grey couch holds on to my skin,
Pleading with me not to go.
I walk the white halls,
Smelling of those abundant ladies with the loud gloves,
They whisper behind their stations
At me, about me,
Unconcerned of my heavy heart.
I wake to the sound of louder breaths,
Her eyes wide open,
Unaware of the blessing she is.
The sight of steadied vitals and higher spirits
The fire is restored,
Warmth returned to my bones,
I can breath once again,
For I know she will live.