Not Enough

The hallway echoes with footsteps,
nurses with folded arms
and clipboards like shields,
each one passing as if
this room doesn’t exist.

I sit by the bed,
his hand cold in mine,
watching his chest rise and fall
until it doesn’t anymore,
as life collapses
beneath the weight of time,
witness to the unbearable truth
that love can't keep a heart beating.

I want to call him back
with every memory—
the way he laughed without apology,
how he held the world
like it was worth saving,
held my hand
like it was everything.

The next breath doesn't come.
Just the incessant beeping
of machines giving up,
the finality of stillness,
and the impossible task
of letting go.

Outside, someone is laughing—
a sharp, startled sound
like breaking glass.
I want to hate it,
to rage against its brightness,
but it only reminds me
the world still turns.

The nurse enters,
switches off the machine.
My eyes blur as she touches my shoulder
like a punctuation mark,
and leaves me
to finish this sentence
without him.