Why do you lie there,
eyes closed, so cold and white?
“Stillborn”, the doctor says.
I cannot comprehend
Does that mean you’ll never flutter your eyes open or gurgle and laugh?
Does it mean that I will never feel your warm fingers grasping mine, thirsty for knowledge?
Does that mean that I would never hear your first footsteps echoing through the house?
And that I’ll never get to wipe away your tears?
Does that mean that all the lullabies I learnt were for an empty cradle?
Does he mean I’ll never get to see your cheeks flush pink with embarrassment, purple with envy or red with anger?
Does that mean you’ll never cuddle up to me for warmth,
that I won’t go to sleep to the sound of your steady, even breaths?
Does that mean that your first breath was your last,
Or your last, your first?
Does that mean that I lost you,
Or that I never had you?