I can't cry.

He passed out of this life as I read aloud from Hamlet; “The time is out of joint: O cursed spite / That ever I was born to set it right!” (I.v.189–190).
The irony not lost on me.
After enduring hours of pain and the dull meaningless words of the bible, He lets go of that last thread as I read The Bard.. Shake Spear kick in the rear. he gave me this book and that old joke when I was 11.
I set aside my beloved book and touched him. A warm lifeless body . A thing now, no longer a man.
I didn't cry.
That nurse yells, and I strangle her with my eyes.
My moment ruined.
This man was better then a father to me and her shrill voice cuts in to my brain.
The wife rushes in and I think of Gertrude, Hamlet's mother. So pretty.
She'll remarry soon. She is still lovely, even now.
Her tears will be dried on another man's sleeve. Another King.
She prays and cries over his warm corpse and in my head I hand her the Oscar, she bows .
Her beauty is annoying.
I feel mean. I want to hurt her some how, blame her, but she is blameless.
She did love him, if only for wile.
I feel a madness and I understand the prince of Denmark now, in a way I never had before.
Will I be haunted by a ghost? I am haunted.
I don't want these dark thoughts.
Her crying was epic.
I held her, but remain detached.
I can't understand her sobbing, so I shush her.
I know he's gone but I don't want the last sounds he hears to be her wailing.
My heart has been hardened. I wonder if I'll ever cry again.