too busy removing your stray hairs
from my hoodie, praying this
gold strand is the last. what’s real
sick is I can still remember your scent
though there is no way I can actually detect it.
I got that disease that pulls the days out like taffy
and you are just speckled in all my thoughts.
lovesick maybe, but I thought I was immune,
having survived that one nasty
flux. stop, stop
you keep popping up in indelicate ways when
I’m just trying to sleep. I see a silhouette, a gasp
of white through the sheets, hair splayed on pillows,
a coiled up comforter at the foot of–
ahh, your bed! I wish I were dead! hahah,
I’d gone so long without the hit of the affliction,
I forgot that this happens to people outside of fiction.