Floaters crawl across an overcast sky.
Maybe your retinas are about to detach.
One day, you won’t be able to see anyway.

A cramp in your calf wakes you in the middle of the night. 
Feels like a mountain lion’s teeth ripping meat from bone.
One day, you won’t be able to walk anyway.

Hollowness erupts in your wrist halfway through typing an email.
You bend and stretch to fill the void.
One day, you won’t be able to type anyway.

A feeling in your chest like an icepick in your heart.
Each breath hurts. Is it your heart? Your lungs?
One day, you won’t be able to breathe anyway.

You can’t remember the word that describes this feeling.
It’s behind a fog rolling over a harbor.
One day, you won’t be able to remember anyway.