graemmegilmann

So how should I feel when you're the cure for a disease that never heals, And I, Amidst my isolation, Lost the only consolation that tempered the fire you fed? I'm out of my head—thought I'd cope but now I'm crumbling instead. Though I guess I should have known That even when you're gone I still couldn't just let you go. I can still feel the ache of your absence, baby, like the pulse of a phantom limb That begs to be touched but defies all detection— I'm always looking back in your direction You're the reason that I write. You're the ghost in my bed late at night. You're my solace and my pain, you're my boon and you

On murky afternoons— The sultry, sullen haze a net of cotton-eared oppression— I still remember                        hop-filled nights of                                                        agéd souls,                                                                           Skrillex karaoke,                                                                                                     and the tender dance                                                                                                              of chatty hands.

I thought I'd quarantined in time To stem intractable infection But the virus burrowed deep and I'm Still plagued with doubts and introspection. Despite my qualms, despite my fears I'm sicker than I've been in years— I don't want remedies or meds; Just want to see how far this spreads.