Dying youth, 

his blood feasting on itself,

the flow within reduced to a joke,

but not ready to surrender –

holding tight to that beating heart,

struggling not to slip over into darkness,

a hand up to his mouth to tell me secrets, 

so the doctors, the nurses,

won’t know that he’s human –

from the edge of him,

I sense a mind, thoughts, and spirit - 

even in the stillness of his body,

there’s movement - 

he’s still no jellyfish

floating in an ocean of medicine –

his chest is weak

but the light and color 

are strong in his eyes –

I’m the one coughing 

and teary -

the persistence of existence

gets me every time.