Or what happens when the liver stops working

I wasn’t there when it happened.

When his detoxing liver finally collapsed
onto his stomach, flopped over his gallbladder.
His intestines had long given way, tied in knots
only a properly trained boy scout could attempt
to undo.

When his lungs finally slowed to a halt, deflated
onto his diaphragm, left room between the ribcage.
His left went first, then the right, he always held his
cigarettes in the left, should have switched hands
every once in a while.

When his knees and shins finally crashed
into his calves, bones bashed on unswept hardwood floor.
His hamstrings had already stopped him from running away,
couldn’t support the habit or the weight of his constant
I’m sorry’s.

When his brain finally discharged his soul
into his cortex out his eyes, ears, it waivered slightly
His head abandoned by the previous owner, left a messy
mind behind but his facial expression turned tender of someone
thirty years younger