He made things for her, beautiful things
that could break if anyone but he or her touched them.
Little wooden animals and music boxes
and silk dresses laden with lace
and so much love for everything she breathed.
He brought her flowers from the garden
for her soft colors and delicate hands---
for her blue eyes that were losing sight
and for her pale skin, translucent skin,
almost fading into her white sheets,
blue shades dancing across the surface of her face
when the curtains allowed moonlight into her life.

She was dying.

When he held her hand it felt as if it could slip away,
slip through, as if she was disappearing
from all the things he gave her,
from so much love for everything she breathed.
And she would smile and ask him quietly
how the sun felt and the colors---
and the being able to see everything he created,
all the beautiful things he created.
And he would answer quietly that it was all for her---
the colors and the flowers by the bed
and the reading her the stories
from old books with yellowed pages
and the careful sewing of dresses and that
What would tomorrow be without you?

I am dying, she would smile.
And he would go outside to cry and pick night-flowers
with so much love for everything she breathed
while she dreamed her feverish dreams
of being able to see his smile again.

What she would give to taste his lips again.