Inside Things

The fever is raging inside me, somewhere near other
inside things- denial, maybe, or broken pride, all coursing
through swollen veins, breaking down resistance, not seeing the
external manifestation. What does blood know of what it
does to the eyes? What does throbbing know of yellowed wounds?
The darkness is all around, unable to soothe my brow, my
legs, parts seemingly disconnected, devolving into separate
spirals of pain, but darkness cannot find its own hands, even
to pass me a plate of cold sorrow. Only your absence sits still at
the foot of my bed, unwilling to look at me. I feel its presence
like a steel handrail, unyielding, telling me why I cannot get up
and leave. An unsighted fever, a blindfolded night and a phantom
hope in a triangle of hopelessness… three blind rodents waiting for
morning. Why are sheets on hospital beds so white? Why is
tomorrow always farther away than yesterday. Even at night.
Especially at night.