The urge to retreat
A whispered word of unwelcome that roars so loudly
Putrid infection festering unseen
Where does the medic go when the wound’s physicality misses it’s mark on external?
Waiting rooms worsen
The lies they carry run deep
Floating aimless in limbo as one would expect of unalloyed aether
A soft caress and warm embrace
Apples that were once oranges
Placeholders for the words that stay on the tip of tongue and haunt sleep