Cold Season

You said, poor thing. I’ll come over and make soup. No, really. I will.

I swabbed my nose, hoping for an excuse. But the result was negative.

We met over Zoom. Apart, we were incendiary. I ached for you through my screen. In person, you still seem to be watching your own thumbnail video. You’re slow to laugh at my jokes.

You say: lukewarm is better than scalding. I eat your cooling soup. I nod as if I agree.

After you’re gone, the flowers you brought will make me sneeze. I’ll have seconds of soup, though, microwaved until it’s too hot.