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.

At midnight, dancers dead
     A danse macabre dance
With each their dearest dread.
At midnight, dancers dead,
Spinning like spools of thread,
     Haunting a house in France,
At midnight, dancers dead
     A danse macabre dance.

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.