We were soft in our existence
in sleep and soft breaths
and quite tremblings of fingers
our feet tired our soles
worn to the way we step;
you a little older now
a little heavier your feet
a little blistered from the miles
your fingers a little raw from the wind,
a little cold from the wind;
I a little younger a bit
more thin from weeks
of starvation a little tired
from a sickness risen from the cold,
from the cold from and the wind,
so I stayed inside more
and slept more and existed less
so my soles stayed thick
my feet smooth and soft
my fingers soft and thin.
And your eyes had grown dim
from another sickness crept up
from your aging flesh-
that tired machine-
and your bones shook in your sleep
made quiet noise, twisting your face
you coughed weaker than you once had
had you been sick like I,
but, I too, sick and tired
kept my dimness hidden
turned it to my abdomen
and let it rest, let it sleep
and turn to death
and my eyes shown bright
though it was dark inside my soft existence
and the glaze of death haunted the backs of my eyes
staring at you asleep and softly dreaming
of days when you were more handsome and strong.
Your voice became a whisper
because you said it felt better
to be quiet and soft
and you said your cough was just a nuisance
not an illness, just back-firing
from a tired machine;
my voice became raspy
and hard from a sickness
that kept me alive, though
at times barely,
and the soft machines of our dreams returned
to dreams as we both grew and aged
and turned and in turn fell to sleep
and woke from quite tremblings
of hands that had become callused
and scarred, the hands of men-
“Yours are the hands of a man now” you said
then coughed weakly, covered your mouth
as you coughed, and I saw
the soft thin flesh of hands
belonging to a man aged and old,
and I looked at our soles
and said that we should rest,
said we should sleep
until the soft sickness
of age and aging had passed
and we were both healthy again,
though it had been such a long time.