Lent — 15 min Poem — Day Eight

Your fingers dug into my hand like the time I carried your shopping up twelve flights of stairs. If pain could be measured by the strength of a grip, if love could be measured by the size of the drips of paraffin catching light in your eyes as you tell me you don’t want to go. I have wrapped you in blankets and kissed water from the hoses of the firemen in your mind. And as the doctors hook you up, and pump you out, the sound of all the words I never said fill a room that God has kept just for this moment in time. Climb into that room now, and listen, and hear me say “I love you”.

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