the I.V. was like ivy crawling it's way to the crook of her arm, two plastic bags hanging down like overrippened fruit above her head and you think of her beautiful hands and the veins on the back of them as the veins of a leaf
yellow in autumn
and her skin, yellow in autumn and hollow bones lit up
like christmas lights against an x-ray machine.
bed, 2:30 p.m.- mid april.
"would you love me if my face was stuck like this?" she scrunches up her brow and widens her eyes and you kiss her shoulder,
"most definitely not" and she leans away in mock offensive,
"would you love me if i only had a year to live?", you stop at that and actually let the words roll around in your head because it means more, doesn't it? does one enter a commitment knowing it will end? would a sane person knowingly give themselves to a wilting plant?
"...i think so."
luckily, love is not sane person.
"well don't worry, i'm going to live to be one hundred."
theres a pounding in your knuckles from unconsciously reaching out to her at the memory only to be denied by a plastic railing on your own hospital bed. it's funny in a sense that the first night you'd spend in marriage would be like this. she groans and rolls to her side and you see the dark circles in full light. there's a knock, the doctor enters, flanked by two nurses;
"are you ready?"and does one willingly give years of their life for a few months of another's? and does one risk their last breath for somebody else?
and as they roll you out you question, briefly, of why you're doing this but the answer doesn't have to roll around in your brain this time. why?
because you couldn't afford a ring anyway.