As he sat drawing the cancer into himself,

What he had all but quit years before, 

Stress of a betrayal and a situation gone awry from his own stupidity as well as the evil heart of another, 

He knew it didn’t matter. 

He’d lived too long already. 

Things he had been through should have ended him moons ago, 

And he now believed that he was spared an early graceful exit so he could know a love he would never know again, 

One that would crush him for the rest of his days, 

Unrequited, spurned, turned against him. 

He didn’t know what he had done in the past to deserve it, 

But it was all he could imagine now, 

Some twist of fate meant to punish him for some unknown transgression.

So he flooded his lungs, and his soul, with ticking death, 

The burn in his chest the only replacement for the burn in his heart, 

Knowing where it would lead.

And, when it did, he would not seek a cure, 

Uncaring, as he had nothing left, 

Only waiting for the final bow. 

She had already killed him. 

It made no difference in the world.