The End Of Times

His name drips off my tongue,

And I suck it in, unspoken.

Hidden in secrecy it must remain,

For he is dying, this man who is more than any man can be,

And he cannot know, cannot be apprised

Of any snags, of any single thing that might be awry

Within this thing I call my life.

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He would be devastated, shorn, distressed, and daunted

If he knew that which I suffer through,

And this, his end cannot be.

Peace only must prevail at these ends of times,

And so I chew on any thoughts of that man I love,

My tongue resentful with my strife,

Leaving words unspoken.

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And yet, somehow he knows,

This man upon the bed;

Somehow he senses my attraction,

My desire for someone else,

Some man who stands beyond my husband,

And he speaks the name he hardly knows,

Unbidden.

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Shocked, I struggle to respond,

Fighting out some faint retort,

Some stunned reply to those words I could never have foretold:

“He is like us,” he says.

My heart had stopped as that name reached my ears,

And now I reel,

Uncertain.

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He slapped me with those words,

Shocked me from my stupor,

And yes!

They are so true;

They are so right that I cannot deny their truth,

Cannot argue with the man who lies upon the bed,

Breathing still, but labored, as each breath nears its end.

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Even as his organs fail,

Even as his heart grinds to a halt,

He is the most brilliant man I’ve ever met,

And without a single word from me,

Still he knows.

For he once gave me life, you see,

And none have known me better.