She read this somewhere. 
She thinks about it now
while she watches his restless sleep, 
 
his hand tensed as if gripping hers 
tight, outside the closed door 
to her parents’ living room, 
 
his lips moving 
as if to the words 
of their song that summer, 
 
a corner of his mouth moist 
as if from the last drops of Sangria  
shared on the hotel terrace, 
 
his hair wild, like it was  
on the promenade last November  
when the salt wind lashed. 
 
She turns her eyes to the tubes  
that snake from his body, 
hears the beeps and thrums, 
 
pictures him, an old time diver 
lowered into the depths, 
through kelp, scatters of small fry, 
 
into a kaleidoscopic burst  
of colour, lighting the murk, 
the welcoming Host.