Sour

Is the taste of my bile. I hug the porcelain bowl, body heavy, anchored to the tile. My throat burns and no honey here to hold my head up while my stomach churns. The fever won’t quit It’s lonely and painful. I pass out and I drown in my own vomit.    

Melted

We’re wax bodies clung to each other like scented candles in the night. Dripping hot we’re sticky. And when the heat finally dies, we’ll harden like bodies frozen in time wax turned cold. Will we ever warm up again?