When Will My Prescription Be Ready For Pick Up

I know nothing except that I love you, There is no intellect that perfectly defines this. I am blind and deaf. The symptom of dying persists. Pharmaceutical at depth. A congestive heart failure. The distribution of reactions that go without cause. Congealed, Soon to disburse. A slow moving touch, Naked in the sense that nothing is left To soothe an never-ending prescription A thought that implores radiation to the optic nerve. Soon to heal the pharmacist, overdosed by a prescription written by himself. Because love is selfish. Deaf in the sense that death is inevitable. Non-existent to the brittle bones that ache in series. A passion burning bright behind light tinted eyes. Post apocalyptic. The grit of grinding teeth, The after thought of fixation, Now an everlasting dream of suffocation. The chime of a throbbing heart lost, as a light shone through the fog,  a sea plagued in total numbness. Hardly able to think. Lost in a world of cluttered thoughts, stumbling. Impaired, non-changing. selfless in sacrifice. Amputation In moderation, the prescription of drugged feet. Steadily creeping, Devoured in cryptic devotion. Now anorexic and anemic. Torn and tattered. Suspended in animation, attempting to breathe. The sympathy of a rising chest. To breathe and be free, Reaching to be whole once again. The pharmacist whom died of an overdose