I was at his bed side, impatiently waiting for a word from the man.
I was at his bed side. He said, “Proud.”
My lungs welled up. The second stagnated, ransomed for a miraculous healing moment.
The split second. He took my right hand and kissed it.
I was oblivious of response. The second lengthened. When I decided to lean forward to kiss his forehead where his pristine water sourced.
The minutes froze in a crowded silence.
I got on to the four wheels without looking back. If I ever see him again, I would.
And the weir broke.
Two years flowing purely that he is in me. His blood is. His wisdom is. His features are.
Like him, I will still be.
