He held my hand in silence, he sat with me in a dimly lit room, sat with me in the quiet nothingness and all he did was hold my hand. From time to time he moved his fingers over my palm, along the back of my hand, from time to time his hands left mine and went up my arm in the slowest of motions. We sat in that dim room for hours, maybe days, maybe even months, and all he did was hold my hand and soothe me in my own undisturbed stillness.
He didn't ask, because he knew, without my telling him he knew, he knew i was quiet because no words could tell just how doleful i was. He didn't ask because he knew, that had i had anything to say, i would've said. He didn't console because he knew that all my path was chosen, and remorse was not with us in this room. He didn't wonder, becuase he knew, that today was just a chapter in a long story that leads to here for a while.
I'd sleep and wake with my hand enrapped in his, i'd toss and turn and he would stay, i'd sleep through nights and many days and he'd never leave my side. He'd inhale my sweat and listen to my breathing and share my silence, and with all his heart wish my illness away, in the same silence.
He didn't ask, because he knew that i was resting, that i had no answers, that i had no complaints; this was one of the winters of my life, and he knew that the sun would shine sooner if my time was not prolonged by cold hands and dry skin, by opened wounds and salts rubbed deep within.
He sat, he held, he stayed, he didn't talk, he just was, and that is all he needed to be.
And when after the longest time i got well, he smiled, he let go of my hand, and talked to me like i had never been anything but sunny, anything but sweet, anything but healthy, and he let me go again to be.
He made me, he saved me, he tortured and slayed me, and as i submit, again he saves me.
And as always just lets me be.