I ache.
I shiver.
I flush cold with fever.
I nestle my shoulder deep
into the warm cave of your armpit.
My heavy head finds soft purchase
in the valley between your shoulder and chest.
Your strong arm tenderly cradles my back.
The cadence of your breath lulls me...
I sleep.
I dream.
I heal in your love.
As the bonds of sleep release me
I slowly awaken.
Your arm morphs into my blanket.
I stir.
Your chest reveals itself as my pillow.
I rise.
My shoulder has no cave.
I feel your absence.
You exist only in my dreams.
You've yet to enter my life.
You.
The one
who'll snuggle me
...in sickness and in health.
To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children, to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends, to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch... to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded! - Emerson
20 February 2011
In sickness...
Labels:
divine purpose,
fate,
fever,
i like poems,
Love,
poems by,
Sandra Miller Linhart,
self-esteem,
self-worth,
You are enough
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