when i think of "breath" i think of the green-blue clarity of a chilled forest, with oncoming winter cracking among the branches in crystallized white. but i'm not going to say that every time we breathe we exhale this somehow quiet and calm vibrancy. no, it's only sometimes. only when you think about what it means, about what it means to be breathing. it means that you're pulling the world into your body and you're alive and when you stop, when you banish everything and let your mind become as serene as this iced forest, each breath becomes beautiful.
because it's a fucking miracle for some of us to breathe, okay? sometimes breath is a rough-edged, rough-textured gray-brown nothing; more of flat expanse than anything three dimensional and real. sometimes the word weary doesn't cover it, doesn't even cover it to the point where it's laughable and that laughter is such an ugly sound i cringe in that awful defeated, disconnected and leaving way at the thought of it.
sometimes the idea of taking another breath is, for some reason, disgusting. no fancy language here; just plain disgust.
(some things don't turn out the way you intended.)
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truce » poetry
Poetry❝as if.❞ ⤷in which this isn't poetry but leftover sadness. [poetry] {completed} (#135 in poetry 12/27/17)
