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Road to Valhalla MAG
I run my fingers over raised keloids
lightly, like the first snowflake of December.
It is raining; the sky throws up silver arrows and
they echo like automatic rifles. They plummet
against the double-paned, cellophane window –
as if that would keep us safe from Mother Nature.
Mesmerized by the IV drip, I watch,
following the lone tear of morphine
as it disappears
into the underside of your arm.
This room is far more machinery than
with all the wires weaving in and out of your skin.
I feel the reaper breathing down the back
of my neck.
No, not yet, I say. I need more time. More time
to say goodbye.
A flutter of your lavender eyelids and I feel hope
blossom like a little fountain.
Amidst the silence, there is no heartbeat,
only the staleness of the air turning red and blue.
Sunlight streams in, drying lonely tears;
for my last of them was spent on you,
and your last breath was spent on me.