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Monday, April 26, 2010

Hand and Glove

When you were here you were
the glove & I the hand
safe & balanced & strong.
Then the fever of your
dying melted the glove &
it dripped off the ends
of my fingers, spilling
itself into a pool
of sadness in which I
stood naked, afraid. I
crawled beside you in
our bed, warmed by your
fever, knowing it to be
your last warmth, as your breaths
drew longer, your heart slowed
& stopped.

I held tight to you, listened
hard, desperate for any
hint of life but there was none.
I lay with you, my head
pressed to your still and quiet
chest, feeling a chill fall
over me & wanting to
follow you.

© cj Schlottman  2010

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