Even in sickness,
especially in sickness,
We love life,
and the world, relentless and tender,
insists on its beauty.
The way steam rises
from chicken soup,
how the clock’s ticking
becomes the same
for your staggering heart.
The fevered hallucination
that turns your bedsheets
into the sails,
The body into a ship lost among stars.
The stomach twists,
pain pulsing in sharp waves,
with thousands knives,
But still,
you breathe through it,
holding on like a captain in a storm.
We are broken radios,
still picking up fragments of song,
dying batteries
illuminating one last poem.
This too is worship.
The body coughs like thunder,
curses like a drunk prophet,
laughs as if knowing something
even the gods have forgotten.
And still,
it reaches for the pen,
the trembling hand
that writes of how beautiful the sun looks,
even while the eyes can barely see.
We were built to find the crack of light in the mouth of the tomb,
to fall in love with the world
even as it breaks us,
to squeeze light, love and meaning from the marrow of despair.
We are addicts of wonder,
fiends of hope.
Let the sickness come,
we’ll make each shallow breath
into a love letter
to this brutal,
blazing,
impossible world.
Even in sickness,
we love and we live.
Even in silence,
we sing.
So beautiful ❤️🔥🙏🏽