Some nights she wakes to the cold sweats of dementia.
Petrified of present surroundings; where is she?
The sweat dribbles down her neck in the essence of solitude.
He stood in the corner shadowed by his own darkness as he watched her drown.
Her arms flailing as her body contracted feverishly.
He watched her fight and turned to leave.
Every night for a week he stood in that corner to watch his world struggle to breath.
Her eyes blinded by a love too weak to see.
There was no remorse in his eyes only a tint of gloss and then it went dry.
Every night for a week, he struggled to feel.
He ached to understand a concept too thick to bleed.
Nicole Johnson 
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