Caught Ill Again
I find you nursing a headache
at the kitchen table.I say headache,
I mean heartache.You’re lonely and getting lonelier.
And what can I do?
That is not rhetorical.What’s there to do?
I kiss you ‘til you’re shaking,
but not in the good way.I do not mention the mess
(by which I mean the kitchen,
by which I mean you.)I don’t cry even when I want to,
but I rock you lullaby when you do.I let the silence have you
against my better judgement.I don’t ask why
because there is no why.There is only you,
taken ill again, smaller than ever,
suffering as inconspicuously as you can.Little shoulders, little sobs,
my little bird, losing sleep again.May you come home,
may you come happy,
may you come whole.
(Source: donna-marieriley, via oyster-moon)
