One night when we were making love, your knees suddenly locked up
as they were hooked around my waist, and we had to lie there like that
for two hours, until the sensation returned to your skin
and we could fall from one another like commas left dangling
at the end of a sentence.
The next day at breakfast you had trouble swallowing your cereal,
so I gently touched your Adam’s apple to help the milk go down.
Next your sense of balance left. At the library in November
I turned a corner and found you in the nonfiction aisle, lying
on your side, wide-eyed and terrified.
Then there were muscle spasms, shudders that only happened
when we admired a full moon during a dark night, tremors
hidden deep beneath your skin like fault lines. The first time
they happened, I thought you were weeping.
After so many years of morning runs and hiking trips,
you couldn’t face the fact that your brain and body were failing you.
I begged you to see a doctor; tried to entice you with tales
of miracle elixirs that would magically make you better in a heartbeat,
but you stayed firm, rooted to the earth like a stubborn tooth.
It was only when I scrawled the words I will be there for every relapse,
no matter where, no matter when, on our bedroom mirror in lipstick,
that you finally decided to take me up on the offer.
In the hospital, underneath the fluorescent ceiling lights,
you held my hand. I cupped your face between my palms,
fingered your spine like Braille. Whatever comes next,
I tapped out on your back, this will not change the fact
that I love you, and always will.