Convalescence - Wreck and Reference

These freshly picked flowers

That you pressed with your body

Against the hardwood

Against the shadows

Yellowed, brittle, pure

They fill my mouth

With the taste of stale earth

My hunger, unmoved

I promised you nothing

But a firm hand

A sorry smile

A gesture of conceit

Beneath my flesh

I feel it flourish

This sickness, go

Spare yourself

Bed sores and fever dreams

Warmth and despondency

To sleep through this mockery, I await

The sweat it beads

The stench of disease

Come to me, come to me, I await