the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.
― Sylvia Plath, 

Her tightly veined hands cup water
I stroke her hair gliding over
Her forehead I bend to kiss her
She repeats my name and I hers
A little gentle verbal tennis
That exhausts her. She leans
Back into the pillow. My sister
Slightly shifts the sheet above
The cellulitis on her leg. Her
Breathing rate accelerates
Then calms. The morphine deals
With the worst of the pain. A young
Nurse comes to speak to us about
Pathways. ‘Cul-de-sac’ I mutter.