My mental health declines
as yours remains steady
and still buried from injury.
We both have TBI’s-
traumatic brain injuries-
yours, caused from a car,
and mine, a more mysterious kind of vehicle,
are both in slow remission
and way too present
for us to see past.

You’re moving rooms today
one bed to another
but you’re still in the same spot
in my bent out of shape heart.
The doctors say it’ll be a long
long road to recovery
but they don’t know
I’ve been traveling
always traveling down that road
so I don’t mind a small detour
every now and then.
As long as I can see your eyes
shining stable stars
I’ll stay.
The doctors don’t think
I’ll last, that I’ll give up
that my engine will stall.
But baby, my heart hasn’t worked
for years. I live for
and ride by the slow decline.
The only way I know
how to move forward is slowly
one rubber track after the other.
We both have TBI’s
both our mirrors are cracked
what’s behind us is skewed
and this road has damaged us
more than most.

But what I’m saying is this:
this coffee tastes bitter
but we both know those tiny pink packets
are just an easier way
to digest what we both need
to, one day,
walk out the door together,
a different kind of cancer
we both don’t want
because it takes away the heat we need
to thrive or ride or die.