By your bed, I stand and stare,
wondering if you’re aware.
In my hands I hold a card,
buying it had been so hard.

Beneath your eyelids I see pulses,
then awakening, fluttering lashes.
You blink: one, two, three
and now I know you see me.

Your tongue pokes and licks
along cracked, dried lips.
You gaze up into my face
a tiny smile now in place.

A dry cough, then you speak
a soft, sweet voice but oh so weak.
Come here, come close, you sigh
and pat the bed next to where you lie.

I stoop to kiss your damp brow,
and that must suffice for now.
I clasp your cool hand between my two
and perch close to you.

The card I’ve placed atop the duvet
February sixth is your birthday.
You smile a thank you.
What else can you do?

You cannot hug or squeeze,
you cannot do what you please.
You lay there, wasting away
fading day by day.

A second card I have bought
and with it I have but one thought:
Please, my darling, fight on
until seven more days have gone.

Then will dawn the month’s fourteenth day,
and here I’ll be to gratefully say:
Though it be for the last time,
You will always be My Valentine.