you are soft and
angry and rounded and
I want to curl up under your
long sweaters, huddling against
another sick body like my own and
breathe away the day in the scent of your
breasts beneath my cheek. I know that
crawling under your bed and letting
your fingers caress my hair when
we are both sad, confused, and
dizzy with pain or bodily failings is
a little dream to comfort me when I
am falling asleep at night alone, but I
wish the long days I spend in bed staring
out the window at the clouds as the pain
takes off with my ability to form thoughts
into sense were augmented by the feel that
I imagine your belly against my back would
give, the texture of you as you sigh your
way through the impossible tasks
we are set by people who
don't know the reality
of working from bed.