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.
