You smile with the rising sun
and your eyes crinkle at the corners
just so.
My eyes are red and bleary
and my hands are shaking;
I haven't eaten in two days
and I think that this disease
must be written all over my face.

But you just smile,
and your tongue is forming words
like beautiful and perfect
and I think I might be sick.

It's like deja vu
over and over and over again,
and I haven't got the heart
to tell you that in a month or so
you'll hate me.