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I can hear the wind rustle
your grey brillo-like hair.
I can hear the dust sand-blasting
your old-aged skin.

I can see your liver spots,
sprouting on your cheeks,
and on the palms of your hands
that held mine for so many years.

I can smell the scent of your urine,
as you struggle to make it to the toilet in time.
I can still smell the first bouquet of flowers
you bought me so many years ago.

I can touch your face filled with folds and creases,
and admire the years I've grown with you.
I can fall in love with you,
just by gazing into your foggy eyes.

I can comb your knotted hair clean,
I can place your worn shoes on your feet,
I can help you walk up the stairs,
I can give you your different coloured medications.

I can hear the disease crawling on your surface.
I can listen to it penetrate your soul.
I can see the vivid dreams which you now act out.
I can look at the warmth you distribute through your native tongue.
I can smell the chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven.
I can feel the first snowfall we shared in the park.

I know you are fading away,
slowly reaching upwards,
to your night-time bed.
Slowly, leaving this place,

 2002 David Greg Harth