Every traumatic day , that never-ending week ,
I made the journey to the hospital .
To sit in hopeful silence at your bed ,
hold your hand , and watch you sleep .
We organised a kind of rota ,
so you would not be alone .
Locked the doors , and drew the curtains closed ,
back at your empty lonely home .

We brought the outside world to you ,
in the form of small-talk news ,
and petrol station flowers .
Sad tears spilled out
and marked our passing minutes .
As the falling petals
marked your dwindling hours .

I hope you understood
how loved you were .
And that we cried for a lifetime
of blur-edged memories ,
through the pain
of seeing you
lying there .

We gathered round you ,
in the lengthening shadows
of that winter afternoon ,
as you became stilled .
Amongst the soft sound
of Nightingale footfalls,
and the muted beeps of
life support machines .
We said goodbye
in dusk-kissed silence ,
as you slipped away
from what had been .

Later on , I went to Taz's house .
He played his guitar
and sang a Snow Patrol song ,
something about a satellite .
We brewed tea ,
and talked about the good times ,
deep into the lonely night .
I knew I would miss you terribly ,
not now ,
but when the flowers bloomed .
I had seen summertime
glinting in your dying eyes .