The Doctor

Musty old drapes hanging along cold stones
Hiding a night barred by iron
A bed of old wood heavy with lacquer
A single candle above silver stand
On a piano missing a black keys

She sleeps as though dead
Skin wrinkled and pale
Breath barely coming
A cloud, a mist in the chill
Eyelids troubled by dreams
And a fell fever.

The doctor paces
He's tried everything
Only one thing left
But he dares hope
He won't have to tell
She passed in the night

Inside, inside her
The fever grows
A fire, a delirious wave
She remembers things
A flame in the night
A face and a kiss
The fever grows
A little death comes
Lips on lips
Hands on hips
The fever grows
Footsteps on hardwood
Beating a rhythm
A face, eyes, Yes!
The name of her lover
Seared in her heart

Now at last reunited
Walking, dancing
Hands together
Fingers entwined
Pulled up, she walks
Into the light
Wait, wait, what happened?
A smile, the face so young
Answer spoken:
I told you I'd wait for you
Told you I'd come back
Come, come, there is so much to show!

The doctor feels a chill
Wind passing in the room
He turns to face the bed
The shape looks so frail
And now dead
Fever had killed her

He lifts the blanket
Her face to cover
In death it rests
With beautiful smile

Written on twitter DM on November 11, 2016, for @LifeOfAWriter29.

© 2016 Christopher Mahan