I miss placing your hand in mine
and feeling warmth and flesh
instead, I receive a taste of death,
now you're cold to the touch and
your knuckles peek out just a little
too much to hide anymore.
I can remember tickling you and
not being able to feel your ribs
underneath your paper skin but
even if I were to write all over you
I don't think I could make you come to
life like the characters in my head
because over time, they've become
more alive than you are now.
Before, there were days when you
used to never get sick and I would
beg for whoever was in charge up
there to give you the slightest sore throat
so that I could stay at a friends
and now, the only you that I know
is the one I'm afraid to say goodbye to
in fear it will be the last time-
and I don't think I could ever wish
even the slightest sore throat
upon you again.