Hospital beds,

Are not a good place,

For anything but,

Music.

Because while I saw you,

Dream of getting better,

I also saw you,

Write songs,

On the ceiling with your eyes,

And hum a tune underneath your breath.

So when your birthday,

Rolled around,

I got you,

A small ukelele,

And you sang softly every day,

The same song.

“You crawled into my lung,

And built palaces out of bacteria.

 

You made a dark army,

That matched inside my head,

And twisted everything I had.

 

You crawled into my lung,

And decided you should stay,

Because I had a fine pair of lungs,

A perfect home for you.

 

You emptied hospital beds,

And are the reason,

Behind carved gravestones.

 

You crawled into my lung,

And twisted your way into my head,

And now all you want,

Is to empty,

My hospital bed.”

 

It never emptied,

Your hospital bed,

But it did take,

Something else,

That you cried for,

Every day:

Your voice.

You took my voice,

Lung cancer,

But I have feeling,

You won’t think that,

Is enough.