A Dear John Letter on Valentine’s

We met when I was a fetus, barely microscopic,
My mom turning to you so she wouldn’t get sick.
My precious, it is true, and as I grew
You made up my bone, blood, and sinew.

Other children wanted dolls and sweetmeats
But it was only you that made my heart beat.
My precious, it is true, that all my childhood.
You were my only definition of good.

The teenagers chased rainbows and love
Such pastimes I was quite above.
My precious, it is true, you were my beau
Only for you did I break my curfew.

When the best laid plans went badly
Or I celebrated an achievement quite gladly.
My precious, it is true, it was always you
Who I turned to when happy or blue.

But now I lie prostrate on the cold tiles
And all I can taste is my own bile.
My precious, it is true, I hate to rebuke
But you make me horrendously puke.

The tummy ache has given me sleepless nights
And of food, I am unable to eat a bite.
My precious, it is true, my eyes are damp
But I can’t live through another stomach cramp.

Parting is bitter sorrow
For us there is no tomorrow.
My precious, it is true, all joy had died
Though our love shall forever abide.

“No more street food,” the doctor wrote
With those sad words, my heart he smote.
My precious, it is true, it’s the end of the line
You no longer can be my darling Valentine.

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