Dust

Sometimes, in moments too gentle to grasp,
too fragile in hands clumsy and hard,
in fatigued closed lids
and weathered breathing,
a chance will pass by
stealthy
crying
needle point sharp
and all who see it clap their hands
I believe! I believe!
Innocently violent in the reception,
and shatter the dream
like the crumbling of butterfly wings.

I Breathe

I breathe.
Inhaled words, exhaled ideas,
caught, sometimes, at the back of a throat
at the base of a spine,
where it fizzes its thoughts to make bone tingle,
skin goose-bump,
tiny hairs previously insignificant suddenly known
and standing to attention.
There are times where a catching drops
and the pit of a stomach
is the resting place of fear, uncertainty, loss and lust,
patchwork feelings that blanket innards
from taking this outside.

I breathe.
Heady scent sent to illicit memory
and toxic fumes of a perfume to come,
a dark sweat, a heavy odor
pungent and post-hast coming when I don’t want the leaving,
want to expel it out again
as if never taken in. But I cannot.
There are no masks
no ventilation system to dilute
no wafting of sage to purify,
I make all the right gestures:
hand over mouth
eyes closed tight
both breath and moment held.

I must breathe.
A simple, oh so basic requirement of the living
that both hurts and heals at the same time,
and like time
this most natural of occurrence
will push me past this,
will get me through it.
But there is one thought I cannot take in
cannot allow to fill my lungs with
or my head to dizzy over:
that you will be gone
and that the sign of it all
the moment it is true
I will hold my self in a breath
that I will, without consent, inevitably take.