Holding your hand,
resting my grip on your shoulder,
looking into your anticipating eyes,
speaking in soft tones,
only minimally alleviates
my inner suffering
as I convey the diagnosis
you have been dreading to hear.
You always ask
about time,
as if by some measure
of temporal information
will make what I have just said
any more painful and agonizing.
Nothing I say, can prepare you
for the desolation that lays ahead,
but I promise that as much as I can
I will be your guide,
your pilot down this river,
of your disease.
I will attempt
to steer this vessel
through the calm shallows now,
and the treacherous swells
to come,
yet I can only be a guide
I am afraid,
for only you can bear
the weight of your disease,
as mortality stares down
from above your bed,
cloaked in a tired white coat.
