A Smile Remembered

I.

You died on that street.

In your sleep,
she said
you didn’t wake up
this time.

Last time
I sat near you
in a cracked black chair
you brought to hospital room to feel
like it was

Home.

She said you begged her
to bring me to you

she said
“he wants to see you.
it’s almost over.”

II.

The blinds were closed
at 3pm to forget there is life
further away from
you.

She fixed the white sheets that laid on you,
let herself out of that room.

Your head titled back,
the television
played

you said
“have you seen
this show?”

a smile
I remembered,

the part of you
below the white hospital sheets
I recalled
from years
from months
from weeks

stood up
in recognition

I said

“no.”

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