I entered, chest heavy with shadows,
the scent of sterility clinging to air.
He traced my ribs with knowing fingers,
his ear pressed to the thunder within.
A gentle laugh bloomed between us;
"Yours is no malady of the flesh.
It is the ache of absence,
the hollow carved by yearning’s hand."
He slipped me a cure in trembling ink:
"One spoon of her Saliva at dawn,
her kiss dissolved in twilight’s still,
no substitutes to tame such ache."
I left, carrying no medicine in pockets,
only the weight of his mortal truth
she is both the wound and the salve.
Note:
Some illnesses are sent by fate, and some by beautiful women.