Today they said it
out loud, and I pretended
not to feel the final fissure or
the shockwaves moving down my spine
like some cataclysmic foreshadowing
of what we might have known
before it had to come to this.

I watched the good doctor
tell you perfunctorily that you are
a man at war. Your body has attacked itself,
stripped clean the protective sheath, thin
insulation wrapped ‘round fragile hope
for our tomorrow. Did I, you, we
not believe enough?

Some internal miscue
has corrupted the channels
of communication, sent signals scurrying
on a mission to unravel what’s only just
begun to heal. Lesions multiply within,
ravenously devouring a future
of doing without.

He delivers the diagnosis with
detached precision, well-chosen words
that bombard my heart. Shell-shocked, I
tiptoe through a tent city of my fears, despising
myself for selfishly wishing this
on somebody else living
somewhere far away.