We’re waiting for your new lungs.
All I can do 
is draw you yellow hearts;
promise pizza as you
pull around the puppy,
push your nose into
her warm, squirming fur. She chews
your yellow hair (you
cut it all off once
but it grew back).
You’ve always been younger (your body
shared sofas with mine
since it was half the size) but now
you’re not so short, can stretch
further than ever before, can
hold court
among quite a few.
Today, together we assess bits of you,
paint the nails you used to chew
until they grew funny.
If you’re
quaking in your capillaries
through the cartoony coughing
it doesn’t show, but I would give
my lungs 
to turn this show over.