Convalescence

These freshly picked flowers
That you pressed with your body
Against the hardwood
Against the shadows
Yellowed, brittle, pure
They fill my mouth
With the taste of stale earth
My hunger, unmoved
I promised you nothing
But a firm hand
A sorry smile
A gesture of conceit
Beneath my flesh
I feel it flourish
This sickness, go
Spare yourself
Bed sores and fever dreams
Warmth and despondency
To sleep through this mockery, I await
The sweat it beads
The stench of disease
Come to me, come to me, I await