A Remake of "Untitled 1"/Comatose

I think of how you lay still on your bed

With only fragment pictures in your head.

No thoughts were expressed, and no word was said.

Long silence endured as the skin was fed.

I saw the needle and wire at your side.

I saw that sickness was one you cannot hide.

As soft as a feather, you lay unmoved.

How were you that night and what had improved?

By myself I could only hope and pray

And wish that you’d wake up again someday,

But your stillness fills my heart with much pain.

How is it that my heart can still regain?

Will it be enough to ask and not see?

Or will this be the way things always will be?