You don’t crave pills or syrups then—
you crave the gravity of their palm on your skin,
the quiet lie, “Everything will be okay,”
whispered like a prayer into your hair.

You love solitude—until you get sick.
Then, it’s no longer enough.
You ache for the murmur of loved ones,
or a partner whose hands cradle your fevered head,
whose touch says, “I’m here,”
without a word.