Hey, Handsome...

My heart is empty, Jeffrey. I’m standing here transfixed within the threshold of a vacant bedroom. The air is still but the delicate scent of your passing soul invades my nostrils. The aroma travels deep inside the tunnels of my abdominal cavity - lingering like... a dew-anointed meadow sleeping ‘neath a fuchsia sunrise. Your mattress is scrubbed, stripped and sunlit – except for two eiderdown pillows. I envision a perfect outline - your fragile face softly carved within the creases of these satin cases. I visually inhale the profile of your splendor; a modern day Shroud of Turin resurrected and resplendent through trickled specks of semi-dried sweat. “No more IV’s”…“right…” “No more bedpans”…“exactly…” “No more night sweats”…“yes, handsome…” “Now give me a big hug, Jeffrey…Jeffrey…” My hands tremble as I reach from one photograph to the next. The images I want to barter with Faustus and friends - ensuring me a pact whereas I can live and breathe inside these time honored pixels - content in lonely frames hanging upon clinical walls in a half-emptied bedroom. I grabbed a beaded satin pillow to cushion the fall as I slowly hyperventilated. I breathe once more, Jeffrey, but I’ll gag twice again, as I remember our newly spoken language - a private dialect we created last month reminiscent of the movie “The Lost Language of Cranes.” Those three long weeks before you suddenly became incoherent and inaudible and immobilized. Remember how we improvised? Remember, handsome: (shaking and arms crossed) “OK…you’re cold – I’ll get you a blanket!" (pointing to your mouth) “You’re thirsty…water or juice?" (pointing to your mouth and shaking) “OK…I’ve got it…ice cream…pudding?" (index fingers pointing upward and swaying) “I know… you wanna listen to music” (index fingers pointing downward) “Please turn off the TV set” (middle finger pointing upward) “OK…you want me to adjust your pillows?" (both middle fingers pointing upward and shaking) “Alright…alright – I know!…If you hear Celine Dion one more time on the radio you’re gonna kick your bedpan off the side of the bed!" (arms folded across your chest)…”Rest handsome, rest…” Ssshhhh... It’s OK, Jeffrey...it's OK. No more IV’s. No more bedpans. I have your pictures. You're not sweating anymore. I’m not choking...now. Beautiful pillows…really… TV’s turned off... Ate the last of the ice cream and the pudding...and... And as I did - I swallowed every part of your triumphant, blessed soul.