Angels of sorts crowd into
My room; their wings bump,
Their hands find purchase
On the corners of my dressing table,
My desk, my closet door knob

Lying in bed I watch them
Their outlines, so feverish I
Can barely stomach a glass of water
The hum of their breath the static
Of their air passing through them

Ordinary people, ordinary men
And women with 2 hands 2 feet 2 eyes
I straighten the sheet beneath my palm I
Stare. Their mouths gape their
Numbness pains me I fall further into

Dreams tracing the outline of my desire
As they push in closer, curious, curious;
To sicken is foreign to them, they
Who need not even breathe eat sleep
What punishment to live eternal

With nary an allergy to liven the conversation