I have figured it out.

Somehow, you are able to encapsulate love into a tangible gift that you give to me endlessly.

We are works of art,
and we are walking museums.

Let's be careful who we display our broken pieces too.

I have a _ _ _.
It smells like _ _ _.
My _ _ _ is _ _ _
And isn't _ _ _.

When I feel _ _ _,
I _ _ _ a rose
Or _ _ _ a _ _ _.
Go _ _ _   _ _ _   _ _ _!

“Are you okay?”,
my wife asks
when I cough.

“No. I’m fine.
Yes. I’m not”,
I respond,

stumping her
in the poetic irony
of words that

encompass the
yes and no
and the in between.

She flips the finger
at me and I return
the bird to the nest.

We go back to our life
and our tablets,
the drip, drip of my chemo
and I wonder about okay.

“No.  You’re fine.
Yes. You’re not.”,
the bag stares in response.