Daughter lover patient recover friend

I am left,

Alone,

Inside a bed

With silence

As my companion

And I dream

Of that perfect

Moment.

Where I smile

When they

Tell me

Stories

And start sentences

With: “Hey, do you

Remember when?”

And I am walking,

I pouring

Big black drapes

Of smoking,

Vaping,

Coffee

Into little coffee cups.

I think they’re purple.

They might be blue.

And you ask me:

“That nightmare

You had last night,

Did you forget?

Are you still

Bothered

By that existential

Crisis

Of suffering

That meant ab-so-lu-tely

Nothing?”

You always like to

Emphasize words

like that.

But not like

Chandler Bing.

“It is rather silly

Really. How can you

Stop being everything

At once? Even mothers

Are still daughters

And sisters are mothers

And lovers, and everyone

are friends, and someeeeetimeeeees

lovers are brothers. If you’re sick

You’re not nothing,

You are someone who

recovers, my friend.”

And I laugh.

It’s true.

And I walk into the next room

To look at the books

I, yes I,

Written that hang in that

expensive library I,

yes I, wanted

in the bedroom

And I

fold the laundry

Before I hug e-ver-y-one

I know.

(I do it to sometimes.)

Even sick heal, silly.

Who stops being almost everything?

Who stops being?

Who stops?

And as I fall back

Into that sleep

And come to

A

Standstill

Once more,

I laugh.

No one stops being,

Even the sick must heal, silly.

Who will believe

You!!

If you don’t?

Of course it is silly to

Be scared.

You are not alone.

You are just not.