I have been sick. Here is your poem generated by fever and sleeplessness.

Mucus

True compatriot to my blood, saliva, tears

You spring to action to protect me from germs, cold, particles in the air

Forming as if by whim, sticking by like a close companion

Moistening the air I breathe.

But, like the Lebanese

Falafel shop guy I dated briefly in Washington DC circa ’93

Whose stated intent was also to protect, but ended up calling 27 times one evening

Because I was not where he wanted me to be

You, too, can overdo: I may have overassessed your charms.

In fact, your loyalty is starting to smother me, friend:

Really, a liter a day should suffice.

Your avid multiplication is drying me out — no seriously, really drying me out.

It runs counter to your job description; it is time to cut down production.

I try to sleep sitting up, hurting my hip joints.

Breathing through my mouth, my throat dries out and I waken, choking.

This is not working out, and it’s you, it’s not me.

But you’re dug into my sinuses like a rock hard bone.

A dense cloud ready to storm, but waiting.

You seek the harbor of my lungs, turning green.

What seemed to be allegiance is now clearly envy.

What’s making you sick is making me sicker.