Yellow and grey-

A sickly combination

For the skin of a prior beauty queen.

A machine to help you breathe,

And a face I hardly recognize.

I can’t cry, but I feel like I must.

A room full of familiar faces,

Unfamiliarly broken.

For the past three month, you’ve been in and out

Of that hospital bed where you now lay,

Looking lifeless except for the violent rising and falling of your chest,

Forced by a machine that is apathetic towards its purpose.

You can hear, so I’m told, so I speak to you softly, my voice full of uncertainty.

Aunts and uncles stare, listening to words meant only for you,

But it is a small room.

They study me with pity, but all I want is to talk to you one last time:

To thank you,

To hug you,

To just be.

As your numbers plummet and we circle round,

We hold hands and sing and pour our hearts out,

Because this is our last chance.

I imagine what it feels like for you,

And if you can feel the life slipping away

And if the room sounds echoey like it always does in movies.

The blaringly white walls close in and I can’t catch my breath.

Going. Going. Going.

And then you’re gone.