I focus on the florescent fixtures to put the haze at bay.
Hands fly frantically, legs pulse perpetually
unlike her halted heart.
A mother is an eternal heartbeat of light in the spatial abyss.
Flat line, no light
If she leaves, my world will go dark.

Our times together are mutilated moments and memories.
Now that she is leaving I can’t remember the glow
and everything crashes or collapses.
Will it be the quiet, quick brain tumor
or the dawdling decomposition of ALS?
My world will go dark.

Like a movie scene my view pans to her face.
Glass eyes surrounded by carved stone.
Lifeless, inanimate in the sea of white.
Sanitizer stench speckles the air
and pierces me in short stabs.
I jolt from the cold jury of tears
that linger on my pillow.
I wake to a dark world.