now we're in the waiting room and we're both so sick,
patiently awaiting a doctor to write the prescription
we arrived in separate ambulances,
but we were pricked by the same needle,
and the tubes from our IV's are tangled by a single knot
that can only be undone if we walk backwards
towards each other
our bodies forming a figure eight,
turning as if taking part in some ritualistic dance
-not to be confused with the infinity symbol-
the only thing that's infinite is the disease that has eaten us
from the inside out
it's so bad now that our skin has begun to rot
like a sour apple slowly fermenting
we aren't as beautiful as we once hoped we would be
and the realization is sobering