trickling through.

It definitely did not happen
in your private hospital room
in the small hours of Wednesday morning,
the drip-feed still two-thirds full. Nor did it happen
when I only longed to see
your overused drab raincoat
appear in the hall. And surely not when you
failed to turn up on time,
or at all.
With or without a cause. Our flawed exchanges weren’t the reason
or the mismatched intentions, those very few.
It wasn’t triggered by something tangible. Nor did it take place at a given point in time.
Time could not be determined
with any reasonable
margin of error. Bare feet leaving drops of water behind
across the cold wet slimy tiles
in a bathroom where I never set foot,
a single bulb over the mirror,
pulling closer, pulling us both
into our shared likeness. And still, you didn’t die when you did.