Another labored breath, hidden in the chest behind a weakened heartbeat. Both roaring in comparison to the silence buried within bedsheets.
Gaps in memory, gasps of desire. “But you cannot let them hear, ok? Don’t ever let them hear.”
The consequences, so dire.
Quiet. Stillness. Paralysis. They’re not so bad after a while. When the muse has been amusing, and the artist runs out of ink.
Nothing left to think. From the vein, enough has been bled out. The virus has run its course again; no breaths — only silence surrounds now.
But as the heart refills with clarity and the body grows stronger, the mind — true to form — begins to wander.
Staggers.
Wonders.
This contagion, wrapped in blankets and pillow conversation — if it got out, how bad could it really be?
Enough to weigh you down; enough to kill me?
Maybe.
So, we’ll continue to exchange the same disease, with no hope or funding to find a cure. I’ll plead for it to mutate; either leave my body or finally take me under.
Because I would rather be sick of you than fortify a resistance. Because this struggle to survive has become part of my subsistence.
I’ll be your persistent cough.
You’ll be my nagging heartache.
We’ll wear each other down until this fever finally breaks.
