Last week I lived like a child:
lime room, then purple room
in the afternoon. A custard for lunch,

deep fried monsters in the night.
And your diagnosis burst
through in thick flakes

while I lived like a child
7,781 miles away from you, having
naps instead of classes.

Still, you joked:
this is the best cancer to get.
Your butterfly glands glowed

in the sonography.
Two lights and a moon,
glorious white wings

glide-ready and I stand,
your phone-face glassen and
lagged in the lamp light.