His lungs are heavy
each breath feels like a leap
off a steep, steep cliff
never too smart to foretell
how hurtful his next breath would be

The air is quiet
and the moon is swimming
ignorant of the raging winds
that are embracing each other
in his absence of motion

Had he been pretty or a little stronger
these thoughts, at night, come and wander
will this curse ever end, the curse of Between
it is hard to find footing without the extremes
he breathes dead air, when will he live?