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the head pounds, the hand can feel it, thudding even and steady like the beat of a favorite song, too far north to be butterflies, and the fevers hot enough to melt even your iciest glare and thaw your aching heart, the throat stings and protests every word, every breath,  every sound, until all that comes out is a laundry list of how ive been hurt, number one too much time on my hands, keeping time, thud thud thud, numbe rtwo never enough time on my hands. wishing you were here, from the gap inside my ribcage!

nurse j