The Final Hour

So here we are, as promised.
It hasn't been that long.

No one around. No birds,
No trees. How many years has it been?

Perhaps you have died earlier,
long before I am granted this.

But you only owe me; whereas
I am grateful, which brings us to

this sudden draught. Something
always escapes. The walls coddling

our silences like eggs. Outside it
every tendril of something spoken

stings. How now, the
real pain sinks in.

All these years I've practiced.
To release you to the wind.

And to say no,
I will live on.

But not for this.

Your gnarled hand
upon mine, old as oak,

as cold as tomorrow.