You are the only thing I can't write about.
You being sick is the only thing I can't write about.
(And why is that?)
I try to start...
but just end up with,
I love you, I love you, I love --
Over and over, a wind-up, toothy chatterbox (wheeling over the top of the piano in the living room I have made for us in my mind, and neither of us plays, but I like the possibility of all things, and that is the problem here) --
and yes, over and over. Nothing else feels worthy to fill up that space.
(That space you could leave
And there is no immediate danger -- on this day, in this hour, in this minute, moment --
but I feel it sitting on my chest like a heavy bird draws down the power lines, from years ahead.
And I have to write this out just so you know: the next time I come up and rub your back, tousle your hair (that I love, that wisps into curls so delicately at the ends), and tell this to you eight times fast...
Just so you know:
It's also because I can't say anything else.