Stages

Breathing cigarettes, and sweat,
and staleness,
contemplating paleness:
the light gone dim
(the shape of him
rescaled).
Captured fragments in this fabric
feel so final, few, and fine.
He is mine,
but only glimpses flashing past:
micro blasts of warm air
cooling quickly,
and they hit me harder every time.
If only I could look upon his face as he sleeps.
If only he could hold my hand as I weep.
If only I could bargain with these promises I keep.
If only death were mine to master.