It started with a simple disclosure:
'I have a tumor in my lymph nodes.'
I looked at you, calculating my words,
their tone, their weight, to match yours.
'It is not even Stage 1.'
I thought I saw something in your eyes
that reminded me of mornings after my wife and I
had quarreled- a search for hope, a different life.
'The chemo is not working. One gallon of liquid
was taken out of my lungs.'
So you and this went on like husbands and wives do,
except from this you couldn't divorce.
I heard your violent coughing,
echoing the pain I never knew.
Today, a brief statement was sent out
to all of us friends,
that you passed away 8:30 am-
the moment when death did us part.
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