Dying hour

Dead and almost buried

a shovel in one hand

my heart covered in dirt and rock

another hurt I couldn't stand.

Did I bury it because it ceased to beat

or to protect it from the rest?

I guess it doesn't matter

there's no life now in my chest.

Yet my brain still lives in torture

as it awaits its own flatline

all the memories and possibilities

twist and snarl in my mind. 

If I could hurt more now I would

but I have no tears left to give

they dried up long ago

as my soul struggled to live.

Then in my dying hour

my last breaths coming close

I heard your voice and caught your eyes

and in that moment I swear, I froze.

It was you, my anam cara, 

twin flame, my soul's repair

my mate, my kindred spirit

my heart, my all, my air.

And you breathed life back in me

we resurrected, our own divine

we crossed all space and galaxies

we stopped the clock of time.

Then you went to the grave

dug up what I left behind

and with the tears of a lifetime

cleaned it until it shined.

And I kissed your wounds of battle

I saw you had scrapped and fought

to live just like I had

though it seemed all just for naught.

Then I took my heart, still beating

from your hand and into mine

and I broke it in half and gave it to you

my heart, my soul, entwined.

Now when we stand before the other

and quietly we listen

our hearts beat in one rhythm

and enshrined it proudly glistens.