When the muffled world clears

Three days inside cotton.

Three days of my mouth

tasting like copper.

Three days of the world

muffled,

distant,

like I was living

in a different version

of the apartment,

the same walls

but softer,

the same air

but thicker.

102 degrees.

This morning

I woke up

and I wasn't there anymore.

The sweat had stopped.

The sheets were just damp

instead of soaked.

My hair was wet against the pillow,

but my skin wasn't burning.

My thoughts came back.

Individual thoughts,

not the fuzzy blur

of fever-thinking,

not the half-dreams

that felt like memories.

I got out of bed

and stood at the window.

The light hit my face

and I could feel it—

individual rays,

distinct,

separate,

real.

The room came into focus.

The dresser.

The lamp.

The corner where dust

had been collecting

for weeks.

I'd been blind

and didn't know it.

The fever was a distortion,

a kind of living

inside a filter,

inside a fog

that made everything

slightly wrong,

slightly muted,

and I existed in it

without realizing

how much I'd lost.

Now the clarity

is almost too much.

The edges are too sharp.

The colors are too bright.

I'd forgotten

how loud

the world actually is

when you're not sick.

I stood at the window

for a long time,

letting the light

remind me

what it means

to be awake,

to be here,

to feel

everything

all at once.