Autoimmune affair

I was born immune to your arms
like an organism which rejects its new heart

so the instants drip, they drip inside me-
tiny drops of dried time
trying to make up for all I have lost
and all I am not willing to fight for
losing again.

I know you will unplug me
like a guitar which wasn’t yours to play
to begin with;

you will sing beautiful lullabies
to put me to sleep, but
at the end of the night
I’m just another cardiac moon
which has to be fixed
with a shower of your sunshine.

I need you the way I need blood flow:
at the right pace and without a question,
a healthy red in my dreams
until I regain the courage to free-fall
underneath my eyelids and slip
between someone else’s heartbeats

because, at the end of it all,
I am just another patient
suffering from wounded words
and you were never expected
to hold me in your less-than-spiritual
healing arms.