His hands risking at the curve of your hips as his breath presses through all boundaries straight into your veins
Life enters you from the ragged breaths of his cracked lips onto your cheek and leaves abruptly through a quavering scalpel.
Teapots whistle every morning as his hand finds yours and the nails of your fingertips barely graze each other as the water continues to boil.
You have scars on your nails now.
His eyes on the children in the yard, following the momentum of the swings,
yet his mind is far off in a golden place with a sunset and you can get a short scent of what exists there when his eyes fall on you.
You have the writings and the pictures but somehow the place has faded, perhaps passed on for somebody else to enjoy in this world.
And now you climb the stairs to the hospital after hours upon hours of computer screens and envelopes that don't contain letters and you find him staring at the ceiling, eyes closed
And the nurses leave the room and you wait to shout and scream and cry and plead to the entity above to pry open his eyes just one last time.
Just so that you can see the faraway land one in its final brevity.
But what they don't tell you is that his parents signed the forms for the plug to be disconnected. Even God has turned his weeping eyes away from this place.
This entire time you were screaming to an empty room.