they just do. sometimes
it’s an attack, or feels
like it.
sometimes we take it
personally.
sometimes we fight.
but then there are other
days
with syringes and side
glances,
with groaning beyond words
and no way to attach meaning
and time is only a nice
idea.
family looks like strangers
faces tightly drawn
like a veil or curtains
and loneliness is a warm
blanket
happiness a loaded gun.
people stand around
whispers wrap around doors
opening and closing
and mostly closed
hands holding hands.
none of this really matters.
anything could still happen
–
there might be a miracle
cure or otherwise.
there
might still be singing.
