An ode to the philosophy of a fever (or why a samosa is most delicious when you can't eat it)

I look at her as she lies in disquiet, 
her body no longer her own friend,
spewing restless dreams 
in fevered paroxysms -
who is this, she'd asked,
why me?
Knotted into her own inevitabilties,
weakened into her own susceptibilities, 
were these merely her own tests
for herself? 

We lay awake the nights, 
a small light burnishing the dark, 
as she lashed out at every touch - 
let me be,
its been given to me.

I touch her searing forehead & wonder 
if all the philosophers of the world 
spoke in permanent fever -
it was the time it seemed
when questions were asked
without seeking answers, 
& answers burst forth as clarities
to no question. 

We will both survive, I know, 
and again find the shallow end of life -
happiness is often
just normalcies we forget,
and mere remembrance of
the most commonplace pleasures.