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.
I daydream.
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.
Sincerely, Jennifer x 