Who knocks on his door? No entry. No pulse. Please give him ease. A nurse bathed in white; for I say, he has not yet left. I give him ease, with his hand held in mine. I give him relief, with his breath taken into mine. A leftover. A winter’s clover. As luck will have it, I had listed his peace onto ribbons. I had given him water to row him towards me. He bled next to me. He drew his clouds through to me. I felt what had been close, while his heart already sank. Not another exit. Not with another life being smothered. In going on, I gave him peace. In moving on, I hold him tight. But he has not left, with curtains drawn over his screams. He has roamed east, where sunrises are expected. What were these clouds? Where was his ceiling? An ocean rises. Tears go. Rivers do flow. But I am not without, for I am within. Within a faint chiming that echoes for a reminder of eternal love. Within where roses are identical with thorns, while those thorns soon become loose. In pain? In peace. Within where a syllable counts as a sentence described in deserts where sands are being collected. Collected like clouds. Collected after an ocean departs.