Hospital Chair

I’ve memorized the pattern in these vinyl cushions where I sleep,
the rhythm of machines that breathe for her and measure every beat.
My spine’s forgotten what a bed feels like, what comfort used to mean,
but I won’t leave this chair beside her while she fights for everything.

The nurses know me now, they bring me coffee, don’t ask me to go home,
they understand that loving someone means you claim the space they’re shown.
That marriage isn’t just the good times, isn’t just the wedding vows,
it’s sleeping upright in a chair while sickness tries to take her down.

The doctors speak in percentages, in probabilities and risk,
while I translate their clinical distance into hope I can’t dismiss.
Her hand is cold but still it’s hers, still fits inside my palm,
and I squeeze gently, tell her stories while the IV does its calm.

I’ve watched her sleep for seven nights now, counting every breath,
afraid that if I close my eyes I’ll miss her choosing death.
Afraid that if I’m not here watching, keeping vigil through the dark,
something will slip through my attention, leave a permanent mark.

We joked about till death do part but never really thought
about what that would mean in practice, what the dying part would cost.
In sleep, in sanity, in watching someone suffer day by day,
while holding on to memories of who she was before this changed the way
her body works, her mind connects, the future that we planned.

But none of that matters more than simply holding tight her hand,
and being here and staying here and choosing her again,
every minute that I don’t leave, every hour that I spend.

Morning comes again and I’m still here, my back is screaming pain,
but she opened up her eyes today and whispered out my name.