He never liked the taste of medicine.
He would always get sick,
but would never take anything for it.
No Tylenol, no Advil, not even a few cough drops.
He would just suffer silently through it.
His sweetheart would always hound him about it,
saying that someday it'll be the death of him.
He never paid attention to her,
always ending the little spiels with a kiss to her temple.
Then she would drive home,
She spent the afternoon at his place one winter,
nursing him in his fever,
as he still refused any and all medicines or drugs.
She gave him her lecture, as usual.
And she drove home,
but never made it.
He remembered getting the news,
falling to his knees
with tears slowly soaking into his shirt,
cracks slowly forming in his heart.
Yet to this day, years later,
he still refuses to forget her.
But, only now, by his bed,
there's always a bottle of cough drops.