Poison

 

The poison fingers its way in, at that invisible moment when the warning light blinks on the dashboard all too late. Cell walls falling like dominoes, the virus tucks itself into every corner of your body. It latches on like a baby at its mother's breast, or a miniature lamprey. It will never let go. It will be there when you sleep, breathing quietly in the shadows and when you wake up coughing, eyes full of sand. It is your new companion, your new partner. 

Days twist by, and this cold shadow becomes familiar as your chest tightens. Headaches appear like storms, rolling in slow and then suddenly drenching everything in its path. Strange coughs fall from your mouth even though you never smoked. Measurements in recipes get confused, repeated and read wrong, as you stare at your hands sticky with dough that should be much easier to knead. 

Flavors fade, and your tongue sits numb and bloated as salt and chili somehow taste the same - like cardboard that numbs the roof of your mouth. Water tastes stale, wobbling around the inside of your cheeks before you gulp it down. Coffee smells like a cemetery and the thought of a glass of wine turns your eyes green. 

The breeze helps, when it presents itself late at night. I runs across your forehead the way you wish you mother ran her hand when you were young. But that never happened.