I do not die from love. It’s like the flu
keeps me awake all night hot in my bed
confused sensations pounding through my head.
Brain staring at black crosswords with no clue

all night. My eyes may water. I don’t weep
because it’s sickness and not love. My heart
will beat perpetual, not stop and start
again, as love does even in my sleep.

I’ve known when people die, memory’s sad trick.
You turn to talk to them, then mourn again
loss unforgotten. Love’s that sort of pain.
This is a different way of being sick

constant unceasing waits for you to call
a heartache that is not like love at all.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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