Wheezes and sniffles and
It is difficult to breathe.
Dry throats, weak tongues, silent words.
With parched lips and bruised gums, even love draws blood.
Maybe this is a type of death?
Pink to blue to purple to lifeless red.
Self-harm is the palette that paints the skin, or lungs.
Frustrated mouths that are allergic to truths.
Biting; the new way of communicating.
Taste the universe leaking from old wounds.
You might just be my breath of fresh air.
Your lips dance and travel and make love to our shared breaths of promise and danger. But please, say something concrete. Just a word, or two.
Feed me with the dreams you have at three in the morning, expired medication for past loves or even just the light of the sun you stole when you turned twenty-one, that you now keep in your bones.
Break the silence, but don’t break me.
Deep inhalations and harsh exhalations.