Head Cold

By Rebecca L. Morrison

My throat is tender, stripped,

so for sleep I steal a pinch of

stale pot from your mason jar.

I slump, fade against my naked

pillow; I lug thousand-ton eyelids,

heavier without my heart's

once-new thousand-ton thump

when it would press firm against

your pocked boyfriend-chest. I didn't

notice the NyQuil you'd placed on my

nightstand, the bottled water, until

morning rays met crusted lids, and you

called on your lunch break just to say hi,

just to remind me "a night is nothing

compared to forever," so I wondered,

Ryan, why you'd slept on my cat-fur

floor, just to avoid my germed breath,

heavy against your face, for I'm certain

there are more viruses in our future.