Ache

The aging body creaks, sends cries for help through red-hot nerve endings to which I cannot listen. The suffocating heart moans but turns away at slightest recognition. The super is drunk in the street again, playing Whitney Houston on the sidewalk and you don't have it in you to face him. A few days ago, a massage therapist pushed on knots so tightly coiled around themselves that they protected my every last bone from feeling a thing, now I am all feeling and each one of them hurts. The severe thunderstorm watches follow each other but all we get is oppressive heat, everything comes out like crooked poems. He writes from the desert, words to try to rearrange, look for hidden meaning, try to hear it differently but not sure what you are looking for. Recognize this body in the mirror not as a person you wanted to escape, but as an infection that had its hooks in you for too long - read that again - you are not your illnesses. 

The heat rolls across the ceiling like a weight. You haven't moved an inch. What might these limbs say if given the platform? He writes to say all the nothings that can fit in a space before your hypochondria kicks in and you strain to get out. It's not that many nothings. You procrastinate another deadline and watch the days disappear from under you, the life. 

If only I wasn't so tired, you hear yourself say. 

But what does it matter?

You are.