It hurts to love
To draw deep from the well
Of another’s spirit
To mix your own sweat with their
Sweetness
And taste
Something no one imagined
Together

Entwined
My hand still enthralled with yours
Even here
Even now
On this sickbed
I am nauseous with this viris:
The thought of losing you.




Soon I will be nothing but
bruises and holes





…




I ............. I...............I
am.......... am.......... am
sic­k......... sick......... sick
of.............with
fear.........­ fear