On being sick in bed II

You would enter the room
and my blood pressure would drop,
even with the pulse that raced each
time you touched me with those eyes.
And even if only selfishly, I long
for that calming balm again,
the salve to spread over the wounds
your own hands and words had wrought,
I know that all the anger, hurt, and bitterness would
melt from me like candle wax,
if you were to walk inside my door
and merely ask how I was feeling.