There you are,
a small face on the pillow,
my hand on your neck
over the swelling,
while your eyes crumple
and whimper,
and I say how
sometimes there’s a
lump under the skin before we get sick.
But you don’t speak
and your cheeks burn,
fighting off the invaders
of bodies and dreams.
Sometimes the miracle
of your being
intoxicates me
and I swoon in your mysteries
oblivious to passing years.
But in moments like this,
when you leave me alone
with your fevered soul,
I see with the clarity
of an old, debauched king,
bodies fail us,
even the young succumb
to their fevers.
I love you and cling
to your palms that still pulse
with delirious life,
but every night,
when we lie down recklessly
like this,
love flees with our sleep,
like dark leaves
shedding over
the wound of the world.
Copyright 2014 Ricky Barrow