Love in mortuary

Last night when my
Father in law died, I
as a mute spectator
watched how doctors and
nurses struggled to bring
him back to life, as his
heart gave up slowly.
Several injections, a
Heart Lung machine and
continuously pumping his
chest could not bring him
back to life, and he finally
passed away, leaving his
body in the dark cold room
at the back yard
of the hospital, tagged
as 'Patient Mumber 113'.

As he was dying, by mail,
I read a poem from a friend
who wrote about how she
appreciated her new awakening
and how she had realized
that every moment
of her living belonged
just to her own self,
and her own world.

On one hand, a dying man
gasping for his last breath,
trying to snatch a few
more moments to live,
and on the other,
an inspired lady, happily
expressing her gratitude
for every moment that
she was abandantly enjoying
in her own way.

These two events, both
depicting life as an intense
wish to live,made me think of
our love, where each one of us has
been the lone warrior,
fighting a battle of
yours, or, mine,
thus condemning all
our heart beats inside the
deep chambers of
a dark mortuary.

Standing in the corridors
of life, last evening, I told
myself that death and life
were two similar human
endeavors, equally intense,
to remain alive
just like love was.
Everything else was just
blatant lies, told by you,
and by me.