To hold you in my arms and know

that lying embedded in your perfection,

vigilantly guarded by bones

that curve in wreathing arcs like the

downy wings of angels;

entangled in the same blue red veins

that colour your blossom cheeks

and pattern too-smooth paper skin;

shrouded by the comforting warmth of in-out breath;

interred close to the beautiful tick-tock of your pulse;

buried near the gentle tides of long tunnels 

and winding hallways with no light end;

lies a cancer.

To know this, and to hold you -

to hold to a wretched lovely body,

home

to the parasite villian who entombs your heart in his embrace

and who will not let me touch him -

that is my sickness.

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