it’s the smell you notice
first
it’s the worst thing
too:
that cloying odor of
clean
that doesn’t disguise
death
all to well.
the walls are a nondescript
white
plastered with cards from
‘well wishers.’
i wish they really
cared.
so many of your
‘friends’
came to see you,
right?
each left a black
rose
of hopelessness on that
table
by your bed.
after all of
that,
the walls, the smell, what about
you?
cancer stole away your
smile
chased away your
laugh
stole your
hope.
do you remember the clouds
vicky
they remember
you.
no, i was wrong
before.
the worst part is
hearing
the slowly fading beat of your
heart
like the sound of hail
falling
into the violet
dawn
and being unable to do
anything
to stop it.