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I don't remember the sun; I remember you.
Someone asks: Do you think of yourself as a generally healthy person or
a generally unhealthy person?
Someone else replies: I don't think of myself. But I think of you, and I think
you are a generally healthy person. That's why sickness hurts you the
way it does, why it fevers through you like a parent who thinks shaking
the crying child is the way to make it stop. You're generally healthy how
I am not generally anything. Thorough. Resolute though not resolved.
It's why you can never leave me, you know. I shouldn't say this, these
words wound up always the wrong way but you started me: you cannot
leave. People tell me to go out, tell me to get a life. But I have a life.
You. My generally healthy heart who is sick and still looks beautiful in
the dark. I know what I do. The cling-clang factor of cuffs shaped as only
small hurting animal hearts can manage; I know. I obligate. I cry. I ask
for more time. And I am sorry for this. These. The words and the silence
mitigated solely by books and worry and books and the 5AM sob sleep
soon becomes. I am sorry. But I'm grateful too, and if you happen to be
the surest part of who I'm not, well, I admit I'm too coherent to pretend
I can pretend myself out of breath. You cannot leave. You can't. You can.
You won't. Because you're good as well as healthy. Your heart takes up
entire worlds where safety lets itself be found. You won't leave. And I, I
sit on the edge of doing one good thing every night. I sit. I kick my feet at
its opportunity. One good thing won't mean goodness. Won't make all
that borrowed lenience strike even. I kick. I cry some more. You cough
a death sound and I listen: my ear the eye to your livelihood. When you're
sick you don't talk in your sleep. When you heal the whispers return and
sometimes I respond. Yes? What? Okay. Okay. Okay. Good night. Good
night. Good night. Generally healthy. I hold your hand from one room over,
waiting for the morning already happening somewhere else.
a generally unhealthy person?
Someone else replies: I don't think of myself. But I think of you, and I think
you are a generally healthy person. That's why sickness hurts you the
way it does, why it fevers through you like a parent who thinks shaking
the crying child is the way to make it stop. You're generally healthy how
I am not generally anything. Thorough. Resolute though not resolved.
It's why you can never leave me, you know. I shouldn't say this, these
words wound up always the wrong way but you started me: you cannot
leave. People tell me to go out, tell me to get a life. But I have a life.
You. My generally healthy heart who is sick and still looks beautiful in
the dark. I know what I do. The cling-clang factor of cuffs shaped as only
small hurting animal hearts can manage; I know. I obligate. I cry. I ask
for more time. And I am sorry for this. These. The words and the silence
mitigated solely by books and worry and books and the 5AM sob sleep
soon becomes. I am sorry. But I'm grateful too, and if you happen to be
the surest part of who I'm not, well, I admit I'm too coherent to pretend
I can pretend myself out of breath. You cannot leave. You can't. You can.
You won't. Because you're good as well as healthy. Your heart takes up
entire worlds where safety lets itself be found. You won't leave. And I, I
sit on the edge of doing one good thing every night. I sit. I kick my feet at
its opportunity. One good thing won't mean goodness. Won't make all
that borrowed lenience strike even. I kick. I cry some more. You cough
a death sound and I listen: my ear the eye to your livelihood. When you're
sick you don't talk in your sleep. When you heal the whispers return and
sometimes I respond. Yes? What? Okay. Okay. Okay. Good night. Good
night. Good night. Generally healthy. I hold your hand from one room over,
waiting for the morning already happening somewhere else.