Broken

I think that it was not you I saw the other night
Arms grotesquely swollen, prone, like two slabs of meat
I think that it was not you struggling to draw breath
Each gust rattling loudly in your sunken chest
I think that it was not you whose hand I clutched so calmly
Even as I was breaking apart inside
I think that your essence, that thing that made you you, had long departed
Your soul sucked out by the endless sickness, and the loneliness
I think that it was not you that I engaged in one sided conversation
Although perhaps some fragment of you remained to hear my declaration of love
I think that you had gone to meet your beloved in a painless place
I think that it is not your physical shell that I mourn
But a heart and soul and person that was always there, through the dark
I know that it is your spirit I mourn
I know that it is you