Today for Me, Tomorrow for You
When you're worn out and tired, when your heart has expired
He’s hot.
He’s burning up with fever.
He can barely keep his eyes open.
Tears are coursing down his cheeks. But whose?
The man he loves is holding him. His hand has found its way round the maze of pipes and tubes and IV and God knows what else to wrap itself around his waist, to cling on to his fingers.
He’s weak, very weak, and it takes all his strength to keep that connection.
It’s the remnants of the strength used to fight something that would always win in the end.
His heartbeat his racing. It seems to want to fit in a lifetime of beats in a matter of minutes. The pair of them can hear it, can see it illustrated on the ugly monitor that flickers beside the bed.
It's still trying in a race that it could never finish.
The grip slackens.
The heart machine falters, then falls into a monotonous drone.
The man dies with no last kiss, no famous last words, holding onto the little dignity he retains in the starkness of the hospital spotlights.
The death certificate reads: Acquired immune deficiency syndrome.
His heart expires, and the man left with his body is also left with the knowledge that soon, it will be him as well. And there may well be no one to hold him.
He’s burning up with fever.
He can barely keep his eyes open.
Tears are coursing down his cheeks. But whose?
The man he loves is holding him. His hand has found its way round the maze of pipes and tubes and IV and God knows what else to wrap itself around his waist, to cling on to his fingers.
He’s weak, very weak, and it takes all his strength to keep that connection.
It’s the remnants of the strength used to fight something that would always win in the end.
His heartbeat his racing. It seems to want to fit in a lifetime of beats in a matter of minutes. The pair of them can hear it, can see it illustrated on the ugly monitor that flickers beside the bed.
It's still trying in a race that it could never finish.
The grip slackens.
The heart machine falters, then falls into a monotonous drone.
The man dies with no last kiss, no famous last words, holding onto the little dignity he retains in the starkness of the hospital spotlights.
The death certificate reads: Acquired immune deficiency syndrome.
His heart expires, and the man left with his body is also left with the knowledge that soon, it will be him as well. And there may well be no one to hold him.