I see your hand, a tortured creature
where tubes of blood deploy.
I see your face, a ghost-like feature.
Your breast they have destroyed.
I still cannot believe it’s done.
This feels like deja vue.
With caution they announce you’ve won,
but still so much to do.
First restful sleep, you calmly lay,
until your eyes they flicker.
A morphine haze, relaxed and gay,
you’re drunk without the liquor.
Let’s crack champagne and make a toast.
“This life can now commence!
We’re grateful that you’re still so close”
(not just in a spiritual sense).
I speak to friends who mourn a loss,
their hearts are not rebuilt.
For they have lost at life’s coin toss.
I feel a sting of guilt.