You will now spend the rest of your life
With the ordinary friend,
Doing ordinary things
As, with increasing sadness, you wait for your life to end.
On the day of your death, when doctors and acquaintances pass your bed,
In your fever, you may wish to see
The one who really loved you,
Looking at you with love again,
The way you once looked at me.
You will be afraid, as you think of your end
In the cold, dark ground,
As the faces walk past your bed. You will strain to look up. You will look around.
Maybe he will stop at my bed, here, at the end.
He once loved me. He was so much more than a friend.
Oh with what tender, hopeless sadness will you think this!
Until you cry out, in a fit of tears,
For me, who, out of pride, you shut away for years.
A nurse will shrug, and think: some tend to get like this at the end.
Your fear of death kills your old fears,
The ones you had before: losing your job, embarrassment from love,
Which is why you said goodbye to me. Those years
Were horrible: the dreary, plain aftermath of our passionate love.
You chose your job and safety over me—
Me—who, at the very end, you look for, as you strain to see;
As the others pass you: doctors, nurses, the friends
Who took what they needed, and now are free.
I suffer like you. I gave you everything. That was me.