Three years ago,
I arrived home from work
early to see my wife
in bed with her fling.
I had flowers in one hand
and a bottle of wine
in the other hand.
And after using his face
as a punching bag,
I had a probation officer.
That was in the past, though.
I had a hallow shell within
me that took pleasure in little
of anything at all.
That is, until I met Hannah
at, of all places, a dive bar.
Nearly pushed over the edge
by a failed marriage,
I called in sick for the week.
Dizzy from a dive bar crush,
I doubled over at the waist.
A Ferris wheel
twisted my stomach
with anticipation.
No matter what was to come,
it’d be an improvement
to before Hannah arrived.
I called in sick for a second week.
And for good reason.
I’d spend the day
with Hannah tangled in bedsheets.
I must be sick in the head.
Hannah clenched my hand.
Her warmth unraveled my
inner-conflict.
I wasn’t sick.
In my eyes,
I was finally alive.
Hannah’s lips cured my sickness.