Nothing to go on

Today, she gave me nothing to go on. "Surprise me."

I cursed her last week. She wanted a sonnet. Elizabethan. Nothing trite. Could do without thees and thous. And I spent hours poring through the texts, trying to find the verse that would demonstrate my devotion and erudition. And finally torn, I presented two, neither exactly right in my mind. Her disdain crushed me, could I not have committed to one poem? Have I no conviction?

Her breath comes slowly, she won't last the summer. Perhaps she sends me on these impossible searches to force me out of her room, through the sunlight, and into those stacks she'll never visit again. I am the foolish lover, unable to refuse her impossible requests. I find myself every week trying to prove myself worthy. Though I am never sure whether I make more of these searches because I cannot bear to watch her leave me.

"Surprise me."

What is it she wants? I toss aside Donne, Frost, Dickinson. I do not know what she needs. I cannot find the one poem that will ease her journey and comfort us both. Has it yet been written?

And then I know I must get to her now. I hope I am not too late.

Her eyes are shut, but her chest continues to rise and fall, and her eyelids flutter at my kiss. I know I have failed. She is not surprised I made it just in time to say goodbye. Her weak pulse is the last poem we'll share, and it's perfect.