Snapped String

Everything is turquoise,

offensively calm and spotted

with the paintings of children, twenty five by now,

not improving anyone's immune system,

anyone's nausea;

only reminding the infirm of what is impermanent.

Water is strictly unavailable.

Once the body is dehydrated we refill it with pseudo energy -

brown powders floating vaguely

on tiny ponds of murky lukewarm.

And hands were upon him from every side,

willing,

speaking,

holding him inside his fading body,

and all the water was sucked out through a tube between the teeth

leaving a constant grimace

that implied a coming change

that never came.

Thinking about what Sarah said, I was interrupted -

'He won't be here in the morning.'

And I believed that if I tried and tried

with all my might,

I could bring him back to life -

and as long as I was touching him,

even just a finger tip,

he could hold his own torch high,

but what kind of life?

And I think that's when I began to watch him die.

So we said our third goodbyes,

and our fourth;

real this time,

and then lost count

and let the music in our heads take over

and we did our own version of praying -

willing,

and tapping,

and moving to the beat we made together,

quiet and sad,

one little beat,

until the electrics cut out

and we were left,

one friend less,

to wonder whether or not he had heard,

whether or not he had dreamt,

whether or not he did move his broken hand in the penultimate hour,

whether or not his eye did flicker at the light vibrations of his sister's voice -

was he feeling as guilty as we were as he left?

Did he feel sorry that he hadn't been illuminated?