Sustenance for my frail body contained in gel-coated pills split into thirds, one for morning, one for night, one to slip beneath my tongue.
A glass of water βor milk, with breakfastβ rumbles through my throat, resists peristalsis, hits stomach.
The heater clicks on as the thermostat flashes 68 degrees, then shuts off at night, replaced by one sheet, one throw blanket, one quilt.
Your hand, inches from my fingertips, not yet near enough for electricity to jump between, will go unacknowledged; one feeble attempt at loving within my means.