Triptych

I. Fervor

A passion too fateful to live with.
A fixation too fatal to love with.


II. Fever

It’s not about the fever.
It’s not about the bliss.
It’s not about you, either.

Except that it is.


III. Forever

It is useless
To despair
Of the air.

And yet
My every breath:
Apology.

I beg the psychopomp
To mercy me. Every night
I say my beads.

And every night I fret
In a bed too fraught
With error:

My fervor.
My fever.
My forever.

Your nerve.
Your no.
Your never.