The patient shivers beneath the thin blanket,
skin salt white,
eyes lit with a kind of desperate electricity.

I have seen this body before,
nerves firing like faulty wires,
a hunger no one names
without apology.

He whispers that he is ready,
then curses the ceiling,
then begs for water.
His veins retreat deeper,
as if ashamed of being found.

The snow outside
is its own withdrawal,
trees stripped bare,
earth brittle with longing.

I adjust the IV drip,
watch fluid bead into the line.
For a moment,
the room holds still,
just breath,
just the slow thaw of someone
not yet ready to die.

And in that fragile pause,
I feel winter lean closer,
pressing its frost against the glass,
waiting to see
whether we will let him stay.