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Warm Like my Own Little Heater
I held her fingers to my face,
Warm like my own little heater.
Warm like my own little heart beating inside of me.
Warm like the spark that was not our relationship,
Too deep a friend to be a flame.
Her tears were cold on my arm,
From where she laid her tired head.
Cold like the blue she wore on St. Patrick's Day,
And cold like the blue of the bruising from pinches she got in response,
Cold like my own tears glittering unshed in her eyes,
Cold like my heart when I thought of the unseen enemy slowly sucking away her strength and the laugh lines on her face.
Warm, cold, warm cold,
And the steam that comes from it all.
Blurring my thoughts, the questions, the answers,
The looks on the doctor's faces as they see me holding her hand.
Blurring my own feelings,
Blurring my own fears,
Until everything is a blur'
Except for her face,
Which is always crystal clear.
Her fierce eyes watching the needle go through,
Her mouth hard and soft at the same time as she told joke after joke,
Not noticing how nobody could laugh,
Her nose as it crinkles in distaste when she sees I am crying,
Which only makes me cry harder.
The smell of the place,
Antiseptic on my tongue,
Smells like home to her,
Smells like the bed she sleeps in and the food that she eats.
I wonder if she smells death in the air,
Or if that's only my imagination playing cruel tricks on my heart.
I wonder if she will ever see the snow,
Or feel the sun on her hair.
I wonder if she knows how horrible it is for me to think these evil thoughts,
To lose faith for even one second in her will to survive.
I wonder if she will forgive me,
For knowing in my heart the truth,
The truth that everyone knows,
Every single person,
Forgive me for being more afraid then she is,
Selfishly afraid that when she is gone I will be left alone,
Afraid that if I am left alone my fears would kill what's left of my heart.
So very afraid.
That her body I have hugged and the face that I will always remember,
Will one day be a empty shell,
Leftovers from a happy memory,
Just that another memory,
Another person who died in that room,
Another statistic that the doctors will read to future patients looking for hope in numbers that finding none,
Looking for anything but her,
Anything but the initials she carved into the wall,
With her dinner knife and plastic fork,
Afraid that if she dies I will too,
That we all will too,
Because how could anybody survive with that pain?
But then I look into her eyes,
Her all knowing very wise eyes,
I see the smile weak on her face,
So fragile it looks like the wind could blow it away,
Her hand in mine,
Warm like my own little heater,
And I know,
I just know,
That even though everything is not okay,
Maybe it still might be okay.