The room hangs heavy,
thick with fevered air.
The sheets cling close;
heat lingers everywhere.
My thoughts dissolve
beneath a burning sky,
where waking and dreaming
no longer comply.
The fingers of cool
find the curve of my cheek,
our language of silver and peace
that we speak.
He pulls me close,
through the shimmer and bloom,
a blossom of light
in the heart of the room.
The world falls away
with the turn of his breath,
the pounding, the fire,
the ache underneath.
Our sweet, heavy stillness
settles in my bones,
as if we were never
so much on my own.
His gaze holds the quiet
where sorrow has ceased,
a silence so gentle
it feels like release.
He whispers a promise,
a soft, heavy sigh,
a look in the deep,
starry gray of his eye.
I reach for his hand,
but the shadow divides.
He steps through the door
where the daylight resides.
I long for the place
where his footsteps have led,
but morning awakens
to the weight of the bed.
He fades with the stars
as the eastern sky breathes,
and leaves me alone
in the warmth that still seethes.
He is the quiet stillness,
the end of breath,
the long sleep,
and the name of him
is Death.
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Emily would be proud.
Shit!