It’s too late to hold his hand now

and when he was still here

I didn’t dare to anyway

for fear it seemed a touch queer.

So I sat by the hospital bed

instead, and talked tittle-tat

of anything but what mattered –

we couldn’t be doing with that.

Yet it was a love of sorts

I knew and knew he did, too.

Though we called it Kindred Spirits,

preferring not to think it through.

He’s gone now, died and dead, and I

cried my goodbyes quite alone,

still fantasising that somehow

he’d find a way to get back by phone.

Then with one last chance we could

explore all that we hadn’t talked about.

Except we’d probably duck it

until his time ran out.