Nothing But Fever and Bone

Woke up with sandpaper throat,

that dry, raw rasp, a warning note.

A shiver then, a creeping dread,

for the cold that laid me out in bed.

The worst one.

Where my bones ached, a deep, dull hum,

and my head felt full, my senses numb.

Just the weight of a damp pillow,

the sour, metallic taste of sick.

Crumpled tissues everywhere, a mountain range

beside the bed.

And that cheap cough drop, bitter,

doing nothing but coat the tongue.

The world shrank to the square of my window.

Nothing but fever and bone.

No thoughts, no future, just the slow

grind of the body failing.