That sound we make when noses itch inside.
We breathe in deeply, shut eyes, noses hide.
The squeal, "AH CHOO!" sounding like loud trains.
"Bless you," and "Thank you," our friends and we say.

It begins innocently, just a twitching
Behind the tip of my nose
I absently rub it away
Still present in our conversation.

The sensation grows into a relentless itching
Unleashed upon the roof of my mouth.
I chastise the insolent itch with my tongue
And return to our earlier discussion.

A sudden complete blank, I can only anticipate in futility
Waiting at the edge of my breath, i wonder
'Is this it?', as I wait for it to take over
But it subsides just as quick, leaving me gasping for air.

Tears come to my eyes, I feel it return again
And the unholy violence held in that second
Makes me heave and convulse momentarily
As my body betrays me to a more primal instinct.

Its over, I look up to see
A grimace and my sneeze plastered across your face
"Excuse me", I mumble shamefully
"Bless you", you mutter behind your tissue.

a tickle and a tease
a build up and release
of what I speak, of course, is a sneeze

Cinnamon peppers
the rooftops in December
and the shattered
whispers over the hills.

It makes you sneeze
and your fingers
freeze
which causes
evermore solace
with the warming fumes
of myrrh.

The bubbles
which circle the edge
of your tea, darling,
pop on your nose
as the steam rises

we sit in rose,
while outside
the horizon is smudged
with ash, and coal
and dirt.