I am sick with love.
Not of it. But with and within it.
Knotted hair, morning after.
The sour burning regret of bile.
These sticky sorry secrets we keep,
how sweetly my skin absorbs them.
I am sick with love,
our incurable disease, this shaky
syndrome of always longing.
For what? I am sick with love,
For who? You and only you.
I wish I could live forever
beneath the blanket of your breath.
I am sick with love, dear heart
of hearts, how your surge
of skin absorbs me.