When the body works hard and breath comes shallow,
it speaks of struggle, effort, a drive that narrows.
A pulse that quickens to push through the strain,
a sign of life, a battle, a gain.

But when someone say your words sound shallow,
it cuts, stings like a sudden shadow –
because words should breathe deep, pull from the core?
not just skim the surface, but speak of more?

Shallow cuddles, skin-close and thin,
hardly seem the way into derail
a reckoning long due,
where my words shouldn't clash,
unraveling the threadbare seams
we've held between us.

In the pause, breath touches breath,
and the words, once sharp and waiting,
dissolve into the warmth of skin –
soft, simple, silent.

So I've draws shallow breaths, tight and thin,
like threads that bind the breaking within.
Sweat traces maps down a weathered face,
each line a journey, a quiet embrace.

The weight I bears in every stride,
heavier than air, yet light inside.
For in the labor, I finds my claim,
a whispered truth, a rising flame.

Because the shallow breath, though brief and small,
holds the pulse of the fight, the rise, the fall.
It marks the moments I did not yield,
and that's why it comes – my harvest, my field.
#thought