The Solution

Droplets of honey soothe blistered flesh;
you glare as I pull the bloodthirsty invertebrates
from your wrists and ankles. I feel my eyes roll back -
discontent in the body we both call home. We laugh and blame
the oppressive heat for the sweat that coats the
bed – linen of the purest white ruined with brown
and red. Did we have plans for the future? I think we
did – plans of love and debt and gold and useless things, plans
of mountain views and seaside breezes, of cloudy sunset skies -
the dying light stains the horizon crimson. I think we
used to think of life and where it went, I think we used
to have a cat and a small aviary full of birds. The dank
bedroom walls now hide the day as we sit – timeless and
stationary – and wait for better days. Oh, how you cried
the day I told you that the pills your doctor gave you
would never make you die. The most we can hope for is
diminished awareness and a loss of personality and
I would love you just a little more. It shouldn't be a
surprise – my limbs are tangled with bedsheets and my
brain is tangled with wine and the thoughts of eating
our flesh. Perhaps we're just afraid of feeling too much -
or not feeling enough. But we connect hose-pipes and
let the exhaust fumes flood the cabin – we know
the world will keep turning in the morning.