Your eyes open, silver
for one second, close.
Your hand stops, falls still.
You send me no more messages.
The machine by your bed
is saying prayers for you.
It keeps watch, tenderly interpreting
your body’s needs.
It listens and records your every breath,
the turning of your blood, your heartbeat.
All night, all night, it pays close attention
to you. At dawn it stops.
I try to read its face.
The machine is blinking back
its tears.