3:00 a.m.
the clock stuck,
my eyes wide,
body numb.

Here, at 3:00 a.m.,
the world holds
its breath,
and so do I.

Since time is taken universally,
to be measured in portions to each
thing a time and seasons, within that time,

to use the will to live, and let seem living
all - what, curiously wrought musings,
wordless, falling for the lure, seems living
moving itself aright, as often wines may do,
inviting titles do to musers unbemused,
but no child knows the meaning of things
such as admonitions not to look upon
the wine red, swirling beauty, see
books judged by covers oft stink of
deceitful meats, imagine the ruler's
condescension, partake in silence,

answering freely all who question why,
breathe-ing and eating,
I am but a temporary mover of matter,
from one state to another, as I pass along
this trail that speaks of long disuse,
where it leads, at this junction,
I lack a will to lie and say I know, but

I know, I am willing to believe, where
I would be if I turned around, here

from there, relatively no time at all,
nonsensed wish to be known,
for having been a survivor,
sensed as something natural, self

set up to become this old, enough
to know, no greater need than peace
with purpose, a faith that your duty

is to learn and make do-good things
from things not being used at all.

We on Earth, honestly,
we have no where to go and be,
we do know what must be done,
we leave undone all we have no

will, or means, no way, to do right,
no way to do at all, wrong or right,

yet, with a will used to prove, right
my will, a will used to wait, to see

after many days, few change life's initial
gravitational course.

Brilliant and breathless, bending
language like a gardenia wreath
hanging from the rafters
of a sun-drenched mouth
that could only be mine.

Bullish and breathless, tangling
ellipses, clinging to a simile’s hem until it
trips and rips the thread of thought.
I don’t mean this as a manner of speech–
I speak without manners.

Billowed and breathless, humming
out of its skin and into mine.
Meaning is a feathery, fallible thing,
twisting, writhing, vanishing;
tough to trust, prone to rust,
words swirling and spun,
sea-tossed and salt-stuck
on a foreign tongue.

Beaming and breathless, flirting
with the edge of a rockwall,
a siren call,
more lullaby than warning shot,
more hymn than howl, a voice
that could only be mine.

Belated and breathless, underlining
the good lines, never shaking the bad,
plucking at the precipice, never leaping,
clamoring to be heard but never speaking.
A lot of words, but no poem.
A lot of pinch, but no push.
Graceless and glitching,
mine alone.

I am often told that love will leave me breathless,
But I hope I never know a love so greedy as to steal the air from my chest,
For I have memories of a time when my body was oxygen starved
And my lungs unable to draw in breath,
Bogged down under soupy pneumonia that clung to my innards
With vice-like, snotty grips.
My mind is sometimes lost in the sensation of frantically
Drawing air inward,
******* it into my chest with great gasps that never alleviated the burning of my lungs
Or the way pins and needles tingled down my limbs.
My brain cells were consumed with desire to force O2 to bind with the red blood cells churning in my veins.
The air surrounding me was dense with particles that refused to aid my survival,
No matter how much effort I exerted to the contrary.
Sweat dripped off my too thin form and pallid skin
As I drowned slowly from the inside out in a room full of doctors
Until they finally placed the tube back into my throat to breathe for me.
The pain receded as oxygen raced back into my cells,
And I marveled for a moment at the fact that I could not feel myself breathing,
Couldn't feel the rise or fall of my chest.
The mark of my vitality was absent,
And yet,
I was very much alive.
I remember what it was to be truly breathless,
The blind panic that seized me before finally giving way to a wish for death.
It's because of this I hope love never empties my lungs.
I want a love that makes breathing feel safe and exciting,
A love that feels so gloriously alive that I am acutely aware of my chest rising.
Love should always make breathing feel like both a right and a privilege.
It is a privilege to love her and be in her presence.
But I hope she never leaves me breathless.

I wish
To set myself on fire
But, people will talk
Of how I lost the courage to live on

Because that is what they do
In their solitary spaces behind
Church pews and library desks
They remember the few

Some remember them by words
And others keep their ashes
Visit their tombs years later
But, I know my books will be made of the regret that's left

Women will swoon over those coy lines
Their children will hear the tales
That I had concocted on a lonely night
When I gave you my everything

O the One brighter than the brightest star!
O the One who talked to the moon above!
O the One whose presence bloomed all the flowers!
O the Beaut One!
O the Belovently Beloved One!
O, Mustafa!
You are the source of sparkle for our illuminating universe.
Your luminosity left the shimmering sea overjoyed.
Your benignity softened the hearts of hard-hearted.
Your nobility had left me breathless.
For how can I describe the indescribable?

What do you when you start to feel like you can’t breathe again? Your chest gets heavy, and a simple inhale hurts so bad a tear twinges at your eyes. My chest, my lungs heaving as if I ran ten miles, but here I am sitting on my bed in the dark grasping at my chest, the burning of a decade of cigarettes beating me down to the point of where if I try to stand my knees would give and I would lay an empty puddle on the cold hard floor.

A.C.

Just for you, baby (only), I bloom.
Your simple smile lightens the room,
Leaving me breathless
And giddy – it’s madness.
Just for you, baby (only), I bloom.