Broken Record Sickness

Two hands in folds of shoddy cotton, in clouds of cheap champagne and cigarette smoke. My ringing ears Echoing the television murmurs, but it’s the same news on a broken record, broken record horrors. Now the clock— It’s snickering, a thief, consuming time and stealing the 217 kisses, the 32 chocolate milkshakes shared in his old Porsche, the 3 ice creams in December and the 12 shivers that followed, the 56 morning coffees, the 12 months of moon cycles— I counted them one by one, refusing to let time pass him by. I remember with him the 314 soft embraces, the 17 drops of brandy that dripped down our chins, the 39 words yelled then regretted, the 3 meteor showers he slept through. Waiting room. I try to peel the hospital scent from his skin, but it’s a lonely phantom refusing to depart. The summer cologne lingers its dollar’s worth on his scalp, quickly fading, masked by Lysol, white walls, sickness. Feverish. He closes his eyes, heart monitor beeping to a constant, the peaks on a swift descent. Because as time chews away the 3 teeth bumps, the 14 letters, 19 skin tracings, 2 chalk outlines, the 3-syllable, 8-letter words, and the 100 times I confirmed reality (as he cried, in vain, for release), I’m forgetting already the smell of his hair, the precise pores and number of freckles on his cheeks. Now. I turn car key, start engine, breathe broken- record breaths. I’ll pretend it’s all a formula I’m confirming, because Fate never meant us to be. I am discovering truths: we’re just awkward children in this adult world, aware of waning time, unprepared, longing for youth. His Gods have plugged us both in like variables, and we’re no longer oblivious to the outcome, because I’ll wrestle with Love, plead with Death, beg and bargain with Time, and still, I’ll drive on.