More Than Life

It starts with a cry and ends
with one too; sat waiting
for the inevitable;

we are more than this
cold forgotten room, with
dirty windows and

the threadbare nurses rushing
from bed to bed to bed,
to bed and back again;

and you could go home, our
home with the blankets
and the shower and life,

but mine stays here, in these
four walls of off-white, and so
you stay here, pale and greasy.

You hold my bird hand
in yours, warmer but I can feel
the worry in your veins,

and when I cough, you
squeeze my fingers, and it hurts
but I'm still alive, and so

I won't tell you, just like I
won't tell you to leave, and just
like you won't tell me

how scared you are of the end,
of my end; of the start of
your life without me.