there, there

poor baby. I’m so sorry
you’re under the
weather. that’s the
worst! shall I come over
and feed you chicken soup?
stroke your fevered
brow, tuck you into
bed? you poor thing, how you must
be suffering!

don’t get
cranky now, though you’re
kind of cute
when you’re grouchy.
and here I thought you were
gallivanting around town,
when actually you’ve been
laid up for days
instead of
getting laid. boy,
do I feel stupid.

I miss you. (am I allowed
to say that?) I long to hear
your voice – recordings just
aren’t the same – and see your
eyes twinkling again.

so feel better soon. rest your
weary head. I’m sending you
strength and healing
and other woo-ish witchy vibes
that I’m sure
you don’t believe in.

one more thing –
if there should happen
to be anything I can do
that might ease your
pain, please do
let me know.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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