Sunday Sanitarium

You knew by then there wasn't much left, except wandering sterile halls-- amid blackened lungs; Where time meant nothing-- fading into insipid yesterdays, knitting needles complicating-- tomorrow's worried hands; Age, flattened numbers-- held tightly against your heaving bosom, as if engraved with loss's stone endearments. Charred coughs loudly wheezed-- spitting hope upon white cloths, yellowing expectation-- between porcelain veneered smiles. But you walked, smiling anyway-- around gurneys with little slippered feet. Blond hair capturing sunlight-- through slanted windows; Waiting for those Sunday visits, when youthful optimism raced up stairs, where it was greeted with nothing-- but grown-up lies. Did you know I hated you then? For no comfort could be given-- amidst such blatant denials, preparation never kissed any lips. Now conversations interminably hang-- like unfinished tapestries; Threads slipping through fingers-- leaving me grasping at each moment's meaning...