That death did choose you
over me

then left behind
but memories
of all you were

before the blur
of nurses, needles, charts, and bills:

on certain days
survival kills

entombing me in our old room
where time will stop
and grief resumes

and days may pass before I pry
stuck windows open

scan the sky

and somewhere
in that blinding light
discern a purpose
grand or slight

to carry on
(as you would say)

if just to rue
another day.