She Was Like The Diary of Her Poems
I look at my beloved, having an oxygen mask over her face, lying on the hospital bed. I caress her grey hair and kiss on her wrinkled skin. And behind her, I see a screen taking note of her heartbeats and constantly reminding me, that the emptiness has not yet arrived. I take out the diary from my bag, and begin reading the pieces of poetry she had written a month ago. As I turn the pages, I get more drenched with the dew of composure, love, and peace. With every word I read, my heart gets a little more strength to beat, and the angels sleeping beneath my skin start caressing my soul. Having read these poems one million times, these words still are as invigorating as they seemed when I first read them. My eyes kiss me back for making them read these pieces again.
I look back at my wife who’s hooked to a ventilator inside a dull hospital room. I look into her eyes and read the infinite words of poetry they are singing to me. She looks back at me and smiles, maybe because she knows that I can still read them all, despite my weak vision. My eyes again dawn on the pages of the diary and I realise that some space is left. A space that’s calling out for a few more words. A space that’s yearning for a pen’s dance. A space, once filled, would make her diary complete.
I look at her, grab a pen from the nurse, and write.
“Dear Diary, Your constant companion has now grown weak. Forgive me, for the hands who’re writing on you at the end are mine and not hers. Maybe you would smile if I tell you that she has become more like you. Her pale skin seems like the old pages of you; her face seems like your torn cover but her beauty is just like your words, aesthetic and untouched.”
With that I draw a line at the end of the page. And before I try to look back at her to tell her that I have completed her diary, I see that she has completed her life. I realise that with the line that I had drawn on the page, she too drew a line on the ECG machine.
She was like the diary of her poems.
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