by Nick Gisburne
She whispers: will I touch her dying heart?
To share that precious part of me she stole?
Our futures are a thousand worlds apart
In hers, the slow surrender of the soul
With something more than life, she grips my hand
Unable to abandon me, to rest
In warmth, in waves, I truly understand
The tenderness with which her heart was blessed
A touch of time, a moment of the mind
Delivers her from sickness with a sigh
Yet still she lives, in what she leaves behind
In memories, too beautiful to die
Beyond the final blessing of release
She sleeps, and dreams, in painless, perfect peace
