-The sediment of breath rests, still, in the folds;
I exhale
a scattering of argon,
your breath so long ago awakened in me;
a warmth insulates my veins
finds its way along the curvature of my spine.
The next breath is mine, but you;
across the restlessness of wind
and the folds creased into memory
to hide the bits of truth in every moment.
Skin quivers underneath the layers: memory, dust,
the thin fabric I wear to conceal the rupture;
it is still there, after all these years, along with
the smallest bits of you which I only imagine,
as I imagine that some such bits of you
have healed into what were once fresh wounds,
where you were torn from me
even as breath and the steam of morning
dissipated around us, and the two forms, we were,
became one, healing together through
our breath and the steam of morning.
In all the embraces and damp kisses since,
I’ve never felt as I did then,
having, in those moments, found
a kind of actualization, which soothes
and allays all other desire and want,
that such a moment could be the last
and yet the narrative would be complete;
and yet, it never was, and you were torn,
and we bled, and we healed, and the moment
so long ago, kicks up in the argon and dust
of the dissipating steam of morning,
and lost breath; my own.