my romantic tryst with cancer

I'm in a little piece of Portugal on the west end of the old city Time has not stood still here, but it hasn't moved too far either, though the motorized heating fan warming me on an upside-down milk crate would not have been here when the old lady I'm sharing the table with, left her parents behind Her husband makes room for my coffee cup, passes me the sugar in an act of friendship, I pour some into my spoon and stir it in I'm the outsider. I take a picture of my fare for my love to see His own sits beside him They let me be part of their comfortable silence. None of us need to talk to be present The lady behind the counter asks me, pointing at my coffee to negotiate what she perceives as a language divide, "is good?" I smile and give a respectful thumbs up, unwilling to break the loving silence I am now a part of.

           after Henri Michaux Somehow it got into my room. I found it, and it was, naturally, trapped. It was nothing more than a frightened animal. Since then I raised it up. I kept it for myself, kept it in my room, kept it for its own good. I named the animal, My Life. I found food for it and fed it with my bare hands. I let it into my bed, let it breathe in my sleep. And the animal, in my love, my constant care, grew up to be strong, and capable of many clever tricks. One day, quite recently, I was running my hand over the animal's side and I came to understand that it could very easily kill me. I realized, further, that it would kill me. This is why it exists, why I raised it. Since then I have not known what to do. I stopped feeding it, only to find that its growth has nothing to do with food. I stopped cleaning it and found that it cleans itself. I stopped singing it to sleep and found that it falls asleep faster without my song. I don&#