I tried to drink deeply of the sky
the other day,
but lately I’ve been short of breath.
The air around me isn’t good enough.
The air between us isn’t good enough.
It’s too safe.
It isn’t pure.
It isn’t full of stars
and sunlight.
It doesn’t hold oceans
or forests
or peaking mountains.
It is air that is 2 weeks past its expiration date.
It won’t do.
I need more than the air between us,
I need the air inside your lungs.
So I will remove it with my own,
as you give me stitches made of honey
to sink into the cuts along my tongue.
I will carefully remove every last bit of it,
as it is the only thing that is keeping
me from drowning in the sea that
tosses within me.
It will keep me solid when my bones
start to evaporate.
It will fill each chamber of my heart,
pass through my lungs, and return again;
continuing to refill me.
I need more than the air between us,
I need the air inside your lungs.
No other air will do.