Room 109

She was sitting up this morning,
bright-eyed and coherent.
A far cry from the day before.

I asked how breakfast was,
and aside from anemic coffee
and dry toast, it wasn't bad.

Silence crept into the afternoon hours,
and I thought she was finally getting some rest.
Until I looked up from my book.

Brows furrowed,
hand clutching the pillow,
cheeks wet.

I asked what was wrong, handing her a tissue.
She told me to go home, she'd be alright.
Did her back hurt again? Should I get the nurse?

She closed her eyes, whispered that she was tired.
I knew these beds were murder on her back.
I told her she'd sleep better when we got her home.

She slowly shook her head.
I wouldn't help. It would never be the same, because
he wasn't there.

Her hand shook in mine. It felt so cold.
I wouldn't understand, but he was gone now,
and she'd never get him back.

The nurse came in later to check the iv,
and told her supper was on its way.
Sleepy eyes turned to me.

She knew I had to get up early for work.
She told me to go home, she'd be alright.
I love you, and I'll see you tomorrow.