In America we saw Moose,
in Australia we were home,
in Berlin he caught a cough
but he told me that it was fine.
In Cambodia we weaved through traffic,
in Dublin we were royal,
in Ethopia his cough got worse
but he refused to see a doctor.
In France we ate baguettes,
In Germany we tried Wurst,
In Hungary he looked like a battle worn solider,
pale and sickly but still fighting.
In India he started to throw up blood.
We rushed him to the doctor's but they said it was too late.
They couldn't save him. The last thing he told me was that he loved me.

We only got to 'I'.

I continued onto 'P', but couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't live without him. He was my world, the sun that would brighten it but now there was nothing to revolve around.

I went back home in Spring.