fight

the sounds of You sleeping,
so rhythmic, so sure,
lull me like little else,
and make me want more:
to cuddle You,
and feel You, like an infant,
as You mold Yourself
to me;
I am blessed,
even as I am distressed,
loving You now,
but dreading Tomorrow,
when You will be taken
from me;
I want You to live,
and thrive,
to shine,
to be alive,
and yet I know,
that without Your miracle,
these seeds will not grow;
I stand askance,
waiting, as always, for
Your glance of approval,
and I cry, inside, at the
thought of Your removal
from this life,
from my touch,
from my taste,
from all that we know;
fight, dammit, fight,
against all of the things
of the Night,
stay with me, please,
stay with me,
and let this illness
be blinded by the Light.



August 19, 2010, for the Wifey. From the forthcoming collection, For the Wifey: Lessons in Love, Passion and Laughter.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.