I only had a week to say goodbye
Part 1 (If I don't laugh I will cry)
I saved her mind to a memory stick
so I can reboot each time she gets sick.
Her version control says don't ask me
and she's started to sing in MP3.
Each time she tries to remember a name
she asks for a password and starts again.
Old memories don't seem to play anymore
because she's lost the driver for her MP4.
Sometimes little thoughts keep coming back
but it's usually just the audio track.
I'm beginning to think her file is corrupt
as most of her speech is foul and abrupt.
The surgeon says he can't remove the tumor
with a 20% chance of a weird sense of humor.
Half of me wants to accept defeat,
and the other half can't cope with Ctrl Alt Delete.
Part 2 (The battle is over)
Sunlight streams on pallor mortis,
with a kiss, I quietly pass you my warmth
and hold my hair as it falls
damp on the grey of your cheek.
The difficult calls are being made,
he can only chew the words
so I swallow them for him,
hard as the red plastic phone.
I sound like a mourner
in this fake monotone drone.
Curtains close and roast to ash
hands held out to be took and shook,
sympathetic smiles, wrinkles of the past.
Your music reminds me of Saturday nights.
Ham and piccalilli on buttered crusty bread,
saggy settees and late night TV,
those were the times you held me close
and I needed your comfort the most.
Foot falls wet on a mountain path,
dust drops soft to cobwebbed grass,
I look for a sign
to find this spot again and I laugh
before I cry, as I do every time.