You asked me once why I want to die,
To let this sickness henceforth end my life,
To let it poison my system and plug my heart;
This nasty plague to which I've become a part.
I smiled, grimly,
"There's nothing left for me."
Your eyes, cloudy and blue,
Darkened a hue.
I was afraid I'd lost you
In that moment or two.
Then, to keep you breathing,
I mirrored the question, reaching,
"Why do you want to live?
Why wrestle another minute?" 
But the cause of my frustration
Was your smile--which didn't answer my question. 

The End

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