Not enough breath to breathe anymore,
Not enough strength to heave anymore.
Retching that thing into the sink,
Wretched call on the telegraph-
Morse code rapping and tapping upon the sink.

Pounding away at muscle and vet,
Unbelief in the idea of death-
Slowly rests as a crown on head.

Hard-line in a closing stall
Best of all- sold out, capital fall
Production has ended on all accounts,
A poison fountain now springs out.

And as the sickness becomes-
Both a synonym for you; and for disturbed
Spile: not mild ash within
Spills over: magma dharma
Pray it will end.

He is beautiful and poetic.
Sensitive and creative.
I bet if he hugged me
I'd feel secure
Perfect.
So perfect that I'm afraid I'm not worth it.
I wish he knew.