The Last Rounds

 I press the chart against my chest,

A shield of ink and numbers dressed—
Vitals fading, breath grown thin,
A war still waged beneath the skin.

She smiles, though pain has worn her frame,
And softly calls me by my name.
Her voice, a thread, so frail, so bare,
Still fills the silence of the air.

We’ve danced this dance for months on end—
White coats, sharp light, a hand to lend.
I’ve watched her laugh, I’ve watched her cry,
Held space when she would ask me why.

Chemo came like storms and steel,
But never stole the way she'd feel.
She loved the orchids by the door,
She asked about my kids, my sore.

It’s strange how close the dying come—
To what it means to just be one.
A single soul, no mask, no game,
Just breath and time and fading flame.

And now, I stand beside her bed,
My stethoscope, my leaden tread.
The monitors blink soft and slow,
The body's fight preparing to go.

I smooth her gown, adjust the light,
Whisper, you are safe tonight.
The morphine hums, her fingers still,
And time itself bends to her will.

No trumpet sounds, no mighty end—
Just quiet, like the breath of wind.
A peace that falls, both sharp and sweet—
A patient gone. My heart, incomplete.

We learn to care, to cure, to try—
But never quite to say goodbye.