'Losing The Flower"
"But when will I know?" he asks into the blue silence that stretches itself around the narrow bed frame. He has been awake too long, his eyes have smudged, bruised circles of crushed-violet purple underneath them, his skin is paler in the moonlight than it looks in the soft, smudged light of the day through the curtains. He looks frighteningly transparent, fragile and hollow as an empty eggshell, and she wants to grasp his hand for proof that he is still here with her. If she looks closely, she thinks the moonlight may shine through him.
She offers him the glass of water in lieu of a reply.
He takes it with a shaky hand, and she watches as he tries to drink. Thin trails of water trickle down the corner of his mouth and trace the contours of his jawbone and neck, slip down and wet his pajama collar. The glass is heavy for him, and when he places it back on the counter it wobbles and falls, spilling water over the carpet on the floor. She doesn't bother to lean down and pick it up, and he shivers and draws the white sheets around his body, pulls his old and battered stuffed animals near him so they are nestled around his face, bowed over his head. His arms are folded.
"When will I know when I'm dying?" he asks.
Her response is muffled in a sob and an old sweater.