he didn't fall in love with him
until his skin was already grey and he
had to tell him what the weather was like
since he couldn't leave his bed.
he didn't mind long nights in the hospital
because making him laugh brought a warmth
to his cheeks that burnt hotter than a
forest fire, and he never laughed at him for blushing
he snuck him in alcohol and forbidden foods
and pushed him around in that rusted wheel chair,
and all the nurses looked at them with
miserable eyes that said more than the doctors
would ever tell him.
naively he thought it was good news
when he said they were sending him home; but
when he saw him strewn across his wine red sheets
his heart was heavy with foreboding, and
neither one of them said anything while he
slid an iv into his paper-skin hand, so
he never asked if he was okay.
they kissed and he didn't comment
on his snowflake lips or the fact that
his hands shook like earth quakes when
they grazed his thigh and he held him tightly
like if he could keep all his pieces together
he'd never break apart,
but the world is never that easy.
for forty-seven days they laughed
and cried, and kissed, and fucked and fought
in that bed;
his mom knew but she still let him stay the night.
he heard her weeping through the walls,
he never knew she was counting down the minutes
that they still had together.
after forty-seven mornings of him
kissing him awake he was confused by
the feeling of sunlight on his lips and
he will never forget the way it cast
shadows across his sullen face.
they say the heart knows before the brain does;
it must be true because he felt the avalanche in his chest
and he didn't know if he'll ever stop crying because
his mouth was pursed as if
he had tried to say goodbye but the
world was dead set on fucking them over
one last time.