Here I go, again.
Slipping down to the bottom,
of dull feeling, at the warm pit.
Another relapse, again, into you.
I wouldn’t be so sorry to be sick,
If the symptoms weren’t so bitter-sweet.
Hot temples, flickering eyelids-
my heart in it’s moth-breath manically
beating against an unseen window.
I know this fever- it’s called wanting.
Half starved, from a taste of the poison and the cure,
I saw you from across the room- not him! Anyone but him!
A violin jolt of the spreading infection,
here I go again.
My immune system for catching you again,
much too weak.
