your wretched lovely body

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,


to the parasite villian who entombs your heart in his embrace

and who will not let me touch him -

that is my sickness.

The End

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