When I think about you for too long,
my skin begins
to itch—
my fingernails scratch at you under
my hide, like hives or a rash or some
other disease.

When I miss you far too much,
my head begins
to hurt;
I wish Advil could fix
your pressure pounding at my temples—

But when I try to push you down,
swallow you like that too-large pill,
my throat closes around
you and I choke;
stubborn remedy.

Your fever will consume me
slowly, illusive burn
imagined into my palest blood cells,
macrophage useless against your
cancerous growth.

“In sickness and in health”—
but you left me stranded
somewhere in the middle.

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