A little pressure's
good,
makes me feel alive.
A spurt, a *******, a gasp
for air.
Notice what it's like to
draw breath
on a glasspane,
a fleeting sign of life. Disappears,
rises into the sky or falls to the ground,
who knows,
unstuck from the tangible,
an invisible mist,
particles from a soul, drifting
unhinged.
Do they come back?
I don't know.
Do we lose a little of our soul with
every exhalation
every sigh of sadness
of elation.
Something drawn in,
openmouthed, gaping.
A little fear, of something unknown?
All our lives:
give a little of ourselves,
take a little something else.