You were born on a day
Where the oxygen in the room
Was thick and far from humble.
You were too perfect,
And I was shining with way too much pride
For the suggested serving size.

And you were gasping right before
You took your real first breath.
And I saw myself in you.
Gasping, trying to cry,
Trying to release and experience.
But lungs are made of wood sometimes.

Then you finally breathed in
And started crying hysterically,
Like babies do.
And that was the first thing we had in common.
Wooden lungs.
Our blue eyes were the second.

Sorry about your father,
He was less of a father figure
And more like a father figurine.
Too breakable, and far too easy
To put in the back of closet.

He never had to struggle for the air like we do.
He doesn't know how good that unhumble air tastes.
He didn't have wooden lungs.
And his eyes were brown.