[dull boy]

I can feel it in my chest. Some illness I've possessed.
Wilderness in fret, but really still in bed.
I breathe deep. 'Sweet dreams' filling in the rest.
Story books. Worried looks. Revealed but not confessed.
Hide the hypochondriac right inside an honest laugh.
Fight or flight. A polygraph signed, 'I lied, but prob'ly passed.'
The fluid's building. Pooling in my lungs.
I breast stroke through denial. Soon I can unplug.
Puddles of mucus. Fever free. So subtle. They're clueless.
Lovely illusions. A pandemic of pandering.
An entire life lived through a family
I never meant. Now examine me.
A phantom seen through lenses and vantaging
that'll miss what was written. A sampling.
Just a memory vanishing. Even if I could channel things
from some distant, remnant, semblance, I'd ramble. Leave
so much to interpretation. Plus, absurd to say it.
'My dad died of COVID' stained across his future.
A statistic for the cynics. Just data on computers.
If you ever see all that I wrote I hope you'll read it all right.
I'm sipping coffee in this coffin. Caffiending for life.
I loved you every minute. Every fraction of time.
I'll love you tomorrow if I get one after I've died.