I’ll sit there with you,
you only partly you,
drinking coffee.
And sipping hot chocolate,
cup after cup.
Talking of times that could have been,
should have been.
When you were mostly you,
and I more than me.
And I will pour myself another cup of chocolate, or coffee, and certainly not tea,
and talk of times,
that could have been more you.
And me,
mostly more me,
and we will sit,
us together at this place that is both not us.
We will smell the acrid stretch of death and both know it for what it is.
And know us for what things should have been.
Fluids pumping into your veins so that we may speak of things we could have done,
Should have done,
But didn't do.
you laying there listless, wondering, expecting.
Myself, nervously anticipating,
Have I lived incorrectly?
Have you?
I’ll drink another cup of coffee, or hot chocolate, or whatever.
You will accept whatever fluid or whatever,
And we will both sit there,
talking and anticipating and expecting or regretting and believing,
or excepting this room we both really, really hate to be in.
