at first i had some hope
that they would know me,
utter my name, see my face
and ask how things are.
now, though, i have no
expectations, no hope
that they will recognize me
or even realize that i'm there.
the pain of this disease
is worse than that of death,
for it afflicts the living
yet takes life all the same.
and for me? i go out of love,
what little love is now left,
the small amount i muster
when staring into those blank eyes.
