HE WOULD. He would, between her gentle hands, lay his head, like one in sleep playing dead.

He would, if possible, lay his tired body in her lap, for her to tend or make well again, or her to ease or end the pointless pain. He would, if he were brave, plant kisses along her brow, wet and sweet, given in love, not lust, but he has small time, for this or that, but loves her none the less we trust. He would, if time had not robbed his chance, placed his hand about her waist and held her near, but time has gone and he has left with none of those things above, we fear.

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