The diagnosis.

I am defining the terms of this fight,

my love,

I call them out from the sidelines – write them on your arms,

carve them on your heart:

I will not shout, I will not cry, I will not hold you if you die.

A little rhyme to know it’s not quite serious,

but just enough. Our hands lie together on

the starting line, chalk on my nails, on top of your IV tube.

My darling, don’t fall now, just as we begin.

They’ve pumped you with poisons and water ready to run and fall and

run again, and here I am, ready to smile and laugh and pretend

this is all a friendly match.

Nothing to fear. Nothing to lose.

But you must run like hell,

my love,

run like hell.

I’ll wait for you at the finish line.

Meet me there.


One thought on “The diagnosis.

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