I suppose it is a common fear. I don’t even have to be near one for my throat to clench with the stench and the cold hard lights to curb all comforts. My chest is tight. I know that my sister there right now will be alright, it’s a basic operation and she’s brave and she’ll be quick, but I really cannot breathe because hospitals make me sick.

The beeping in the background, formality of charms, the terrifying feeling of a drip in both your arms. Queasiness my body, easiness of ill, the number of things that must work inside me though I’m still. Breathing now is laboured. Can’t seem to forget. The way it feels in hospital, the feelings there I left.

I’ve only been inside one- overnight at least. In Italy, aside from that for visits, mostly, at the least. There’s days there I dare never share, there’s memories I’d dare not bring, back from where between those walls they’ll stay between us, stay and sing. I miss you and I promise, that’s not the only place, and not the one I think of most when I recall your face. So I can not even write it. The way I saw you last. The way somehow I’d waited for this moment in my past. I cried for it already. I did not have much left. But still that day and hospitals will haunt me till my death.

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