I want you to read to me when I’m sick;
Lying in bed, tossing and turning,
Heart racing and head spinning,
Vision shaking and hands quaking.
I want you to gently sing
The psalms of old poets to clear
What’s left of my mind.
I won’t be angry
If you cover your face;
If you call this a contaminated place.
I just want you to brush matted hair aside
And say ‘I love you’ one last time.
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