• waking up with you next to me,
    recognizable even under the labyrinth of tubes which surround you;
    you’re merely in need of a surge protector,
    not a surgery.

    i find myself back in the waiting room
    where sticky fists take custody of stubby crayons.
    in your room, i could at least try
    to make a song out of the dissonance of beeps
    emanating from each closed curtain.

    i have watched your body crack along its fault lines,
    watched the squiggles of your successes
    play tug-of-war
    across the computer screen.

    but the intricacies of infections seem so tangible
    when i compare them to the transience of the
    fleeting memories i have of you

    asking if watermelon trees would grow someday
    as you spat their seeds into the grass.
    i look up at the fluid above your head,
    forming endless droplets just before
    they chase each other
    into the coffee straws
    which i am dismayed to find
    are your veins.