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,
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...
Copyright © Bernadette Langer