the doctor tells me i have two weeks

until my heart stops from a love that is not returned in full

“we’re friends,” i say, “just friends”

knowing that every thought of

you

brings me closer to certain doom

but to be cured would mean

losing the sound of your sweet, honeyed laughter

or the feel of your shoulder brushing slightly

against mine

(those butterflies you give me,

i think would miss them too much)

to forget you

would be a pain worse than death

so i endure the thorns that puncture my lungs whenever you’re near

coughing up your favorite flower
each morning

blue hydrangeas

pretending not to feel the garden of thorns

crawling up my throat, rendering me

breathless

who needs air when you have

hopeless love?