Well Feeling

As much as I would prefer to write

about my desire for long loving

embraces, deep passionate kisses

and lingering flirtatious eye contact,

I find that I am too obsessed with

my own wellness.

Or for lack of a better term,

my perceived wellness in spite

of this pandemic.

Every minor sniffle, soreness,

ache or minor indigestion is met with
concerns for my own well-being.

And concerns for those who may

have been around me.

I don’t feel sick or have any actual

symptoms of illness, but I am too

terrified of it all to actually feel well.

I don’t feel well.

I don’t feel well because I can’t

feel a soft special kiss on my lips

before I go to bed. I don’t feel well

because I sit alone on my sofa so

often my ass groove has its own ass

groove.

I don’t feel well because of all

the stupid around. Stupidity moving

almost as quickly as the virus, if not

moving faster. I feel like Pope Clement VI

who surrounded himself with burning torches

in the hopes of blocking the Black Death in 1347.

While there’s no indication surrounding oneself

with burning torches all day, every day, can stop

the spread of stupidity or the Black Death, Pope Clement VI never

contracted the Black Death and lived.

Plus torches are sort of passé.

So, there’s that.

I miss feeling an honest wellness,

and writing about loving, passion,

and general humanness. I miss just

feeling something other than constant

dread and anxiety.

So I guess I don’t feel well.