26th February 2019

Sat together,
he closes his eyes
and I think
the same old thing
that’s looped
over,
over,
over
for two years.

Let us find the cure
to heal his body,
save his life
and give me many,
many,
many
more nights
of him snoring lightly,
quietly,
peacefully
beside me
on this brown leather sofa.
His handsome face,
chiselled cheekbones
and afro-y goatee
rest on his curled up fist.

The same hand to hold mine
when I was little
that pulled me to the inside
of the pavement.
He’s saved my life
a thousand times
and now I cook
and speak bravely
wishing desperately
to save his.

He wakes,
scowls at the TV
and says about Kurt Cobain singing,
‘What kind of crap is that?’
I laugh.
I love him.
I say, ‘I like this song.’

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