Two weeks. Not a cold. A siege.
Tickle first. The polite one.
Then the razor, every swallow a cut.
Then the tap left running: drip, drip,
snot, snot, and more snot,
a tide that never turned.
Stood at the kettle. Eyes shut.
Woke up still stood.
Aches in the bones that usually carry you.
Pains in the places you train through.
The body a wet coat you couldn’t take off.
Mind said: SkiErg. Outside. Move.
Soul said: sofa. And won.
Again. And again.
Shower on. Water like needles in the hair.
Even that hurt.
Even that was too much.
Man flu, they call it.
Two weeks of this and the joke dies.
You don’t argue. You just wait
for the day the sofa loses.
Today I got to the office.