Tears sit, poised on my lashes and threatening me to pounce as the graceful, effortless words tumble softly from your mouth and take flight. You breathe those glorious words.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I hear them, and they swirls around my head for the rest of the day, ruffling my hair, tugging on my shoelaces. Your beautiful words, new and fresh and tinted a soft pink.
They cause my breath to become like the ocean waves, shaky and shallow.

Then, I push my words from my mouth. And they fall, yes they fall, but not like yours. My words are heavy and worn and gray and clumsy and hit the ground with a tremendous thud. And you attempt to coax my words up and away into the breeze with yours. You say it will come. You say it is something learned.
But I cannot wait to learn. I cannot wait for it to come.
Because in my head your words are always spinning, mixed in with the roar of my blood rushing through my veins and the ‘Shhhh’ of my deep breaths.

I cannot take it.

I cannot take it.

I cannot breathe anymore.