Ebullient in a Dumpster fire

My fingertips were ice
and the bounce of my knee  
turned the paper barrier  
they put on exam tables  
into a bowl of    
rice krispies  
 
The little drugstore  
test with a plus  
was in my bag,  
you exhaled  
too heavily  
and took my cold  
fingers in yours.  
 
The doctor came  
and gave us the  
(happy)  
news.  
 
It was unlikely to  
ever  
be a real positive  
without some  
scar tissue  
removal.  
 
The breath left us both  
at the same time  
for different reasons.  
 
You hugged me in the parking lot,    
dropped a big,  
smacking kiss  
on my mouth and said,  
“Dodged that bullet,  
babyluv.”  
 
As I got in the too-hot car  
and hid behind my sunglasses  
I swallowed hard  
because you were  
honest about how much  
you really never wanted this  
 
but I lied about how  
much I really did.