Nec caelum patior, nec aquis adsueuimus istis,
terraque nescioquo non placet ipsa modo
Why is this not my writing?
I’m dictating
to my landlady today
too sick to hold a pen
no hospitals up here
no friends to visit
grapes & gossip
I think of you
keep talking to you
even in delirium
(or so they tell me)
if you were here
then I’d get up
to greet you
unless you’re happier
without me?
No -- I know
that’s just not you
I can still make you sad
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