His heart popped like a balloon,
and a final shriek Gwen, Gwen, Gwen
was forced out with the death loam,
a foam of guttural spluttered love.
With his form failing in that final hug
grasping for intimacy on the rough rug.
A mouthed goodbye, no strength to cry.
Just the sound of a fly at the window
failing as it toils weakening in a web,
and too soon a shattering silence settles.
A pain conceived as a sickening ache
soon to become an unwelcome friend,
a memory to tend, with embers to rake.