Catch My Breath

I’ve seen pictures of the man who made you, come ’round once a year in your dreamcatcher. Does he know your devil doses, or the dry winter without me? Does he know he left traces of his hands on your hips, or does he fancy himself a phantom? Keep those folded notes I left as bookmarks for the paragraph where we fell in love; you knew each story ended but I don’t remember the moment I was born and breathed on my own so how do I know I’ll feel the last exhale; the first kiss with my first love was a gush of wind and I’ll never be sure if you’re the last. I bought cotton sheets that remind me of how cool my parents’ bed felt in the summer, those silent days as a child when I was boundless and beautiful. All these lines are about different hearts, but I wonder if she thinks every line traces to her body bag. It’s about the girl you turned from neighbor to neglect. I never knew pain could keep you round but you’re ringworm, around the rosie, pockets full of pills and old poetry about your best intentions. If my sister did these things I would say humans are flawed; if you did them I would let you know I’ve walked away from wildfires and flowers. Stay selective and we’ll see. We once shared air.


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