Dystopia With Variations on Dys

I have laid my cheek    
Against the word:    
Dys-to-pi-a. Slid it between    
The labia of my lips,    
Rolled it about my tongue,    
Felt how it lies against    
The papillae    
As smooth and perfect    
As poke berry poison    
Swimming through the mind.    
   
Or distant, which is to say,    
Something as far away    
As your love now, once    
So close to me    
Thrown like a bridal bouquet    
Of wilted flowers    
In casual disarray,    
   
Something as smooth as    
A gizzard stone,    
Yet as hard to swallow    
As love  smashed and disassembled    
Into shards of disappointed dreams    
That slice the throat going down.    
   
Or dysarthria, as in    
Difficulty in articulating words,    
A tongue-tied old man struggling    
To tell his precious one    
That which cannot be displayed    
But comes out as    
Disjointed and dysfunctional    
As a prefix which fixes nothing.    
   
Is this who I am,    
Discombobulated    
Discarded, distraught,    
Led about by the nose    
By a tethering oxygen hose?    
   
But yet I swear in all my sputtering dotage    
By all that was and shall be true    
I never loved another quite as much    
As I love you.