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The Promise
When I was young, my best friend lay
beneath white lights at end of day.
I left his floor and climbed upstairs
to find my first love waiting there.
Same white walls. Same stale air.
Same dim lights and nurses stare.
She was close, but past the door.
Past visiting hours. Nothing more.
I took that home, that quiet ache:
how near can still be kept away.
Then you came in, and life grew wide,
warm with coffee and kids inside.
Then days went hard, and you got ill.
The world turned strange. The house went still.
One bad night broke more than sleep.
Glass on the floor. Words too deep.
By dawn I stood with shard in hand,
a piece of us I could not mend.
Then came long months with miles and phones,
two broken lives in separate homes.
We spoke more true than we had in years,
soft through the dark, stripped down and clear.
Then came white halls and weeks of doors,
late-night turns through guarded floors.
But I was not that young man then.
I learned the halls. I learned the when.
I found the ways that got me through
and stole back bits of time with you.
As much as pain and drugs would spare,
we took what little time was there.
Not whole. Not long. Not what we planned.
But real enough to hold your hand.
I came the night before the end,
held your hand, then sat again.
I drew the promise I still owed
while pain took you where I could not go.
No one said no. I found the room.
I sat with you and lost you slow.
The end still came, as endings do.
The halls stayed white. You could not stay.
English
