Wednesday night I cried into his shirt. I swear all the fabrics of the clothing he wears
and the pores of his skin and hair are filled with the salt from my tears. His neck and
hands are the only things that dry my face, and when my eyes swell up, he is my
blanket, my cushion, my gentle embrace.
I have always wondered why he sweats so much.
Now I see he must release all the moisture somehow.
And to note he is lying on the couch soaked in beads
Earlier today, I asked him if he had been wearing his cancer pendant while he bathes.
He said, "No, it's from working. Water cannot create that much corrosion, but possibly
the waves of the ocean." It makes sense; a due process, considering my pendant still
gleams brand new. You perspire what I weep unto you.
And yet, though I loathe sweat, he kisses my wet eyelashes sticking together and
promises me he will do so forever; and I—I would lick his exertion if he said so
I would be his shirts and his clothes and his skin if I had to.