I’d like to be your lungs,
a necessity,
forever expanding and contracting
always a place for me
inside of you.

Again I crack,
crumble
and settle at your feet.

Looking up at you,
you’re closer to the sun
than anyone should be.

I dampen my heels
in pools of nostalgia:
elixir of the heart
and a simultaneous poison.

Even the pale tree-leaves,
in a conspiracy
allude to you.

I tell myself
these circumstances
are beyond my control.

Sitting patiently,
I practice not thinking
of you.