The boy no longer clings to my waist.
I wish he was,
because this room smells sterile in a way that makes me unsettled,
and it would be so uncouth to cling to you,
as our tears fall,
and a man tells us what we already know.
I don’t know how I will tell the boy.
He’s a man, now,
but every man becomes a boy again when faced with fate’s cruelty.
I don’t know if I can comfort him as he cries,
when I am already falling apart just thinking about it.
The doctor’s doom fades away,
and we are on honeymoon again,
holding hands as the sun sets over the south pier at Blackpool,
the Irish Sea singing a sweet song about how life is just a fantasy,
if you let it be.
Let me dream.
Don’t let go of my hand, Blue.