She Never Cried in Front of Him

She Never Cried in Front of Him

She never cried in front of him,

just smiled and said, “It’s not so bad.”

She’d smooth his shirt, refill his cup,

and laugh at days that made him sad.

When nights grew long and sleep ran thin,

she’d hum the tune he always loved.

And when her hands began to shake,

she wore gloves made of wool and bluff.

He brought her flowers now and then,

not knowing why she held them close.

She’d place them in the sunlit nook

and whisper, “Yellow suits me most.”

They never spoke of what might come,

they just stayed near, they made things right.

He’d kiss her brow, she’d rest her head,

two hearts that breathed in quiet dread.

Now in the morning, he still makes tea,

and sets two cups, just like before.

He lets the silence stretch a bit,

then slowly closes photograph drawer.

She never cried in front of him,

but love like hers does not depart.

It lingers in the quiet air,

it lives inside his broken heart.