The absence of breath


I remember the height of it all. Your height as you stand before me. A gentle tower. I remember the feeling of your hand around my own, our fingers dancing with one another. I remember floating just above the weight of my own existence.

You lifted me. I fell into your arms and you swept me away from the churning sickness. I fell into your soft light and dark eyes, in the space between the rims of your glasses. I still hear the sound of your voice, a gentle whispering breeze that swept along the curve in my neck. A slight tender tickle to the lobes of my ears.

I recall the breath, yours and mine, spinning our spirits as we lay together. Each alone and each folding into the other.


All was light.

All was clouds

and soft, summer rain.

All was down.

All was fresh

and still.


All was undone.

I felt the fall before I hit the ground. I felt the moment you released me, the moment you turned your head away.

The moment you silenced the sweet spell.


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