Hands holding
Curled up fingers
Reaching, reaching
For more than
Blanket, pillow, needles, tube
But alas,
Not finding
Surprised?
No, but sad?
Perhaps, these questions
No one dares to
Ask, ask him if
He’s afraid
He’ll say the weather’s nice
And notice
That your hair looks even nicer
You’ll back away
Beaten soldier
Curled up fingers, won
But yet
Alas
He was never meant for
Florescence, more of
Spot lights, curtains
Clap clapping hands applauding
His own fingers.

Back to now
The weight pressing on your skin
Until it can’t help
But to wrinkle
Now
The questions run from answers
Like fingers running over a piano’s keys
Reaching
We all reach for more than this
This?
That’s now, you know
You never visited him
Quite enough
He missed you
The weather would never
Be nice enough to
Replace
To turn reaching to finding
Curled up fingers
MIssing the magic they once mad
He misses the stage
He misses more you
He’s not afraid of dying
He’s afraid of reaching
And never finding again
A note to echo from
Or a hand to wrap around
His curled up fingers