When I am sick I dream of you.
Many times, in different stages
of my life.

My subconscious is not picky.
A cold might set it spinning.
Or the flu.

When fevers don't break
it is your voice that comforts.
Your hand on my brow.

In illness I am at my weakest.
My defenses are down,
and that is why you come back.

I have packed our childhood away
in an organized box
at the back of my mind.

But illness has no regard
for my micromanaging,
and is indifferent to my heart.

So, for sweat soaked nights
I am forced to remember
what we almost had.