Lungs

You managed to take

the breath right from my chest.

As if you stole my desire to live.

My lungs forgot how to inflate

when you weren't there

to guide my veins and

beat out the steady rhythm

that made my life.

So this is drowning.

This is gasping for air.

This is sucking in the tiny

pieces scattered in the aftermath.

But you never really forget

how to inhale, you only wish

you could. Because the oxygen

makes me dizzy with memories.

In.

Freckles smattered on cheekbones.

Out.

A smile that wasn't for me.

In.

Hands caressing spines.

Out.

Greedy bruises along my thighs.

In.

The first words you spoke.

Out.

The silence you used to say goodbye.

It's funny how the things that keep

you alive, make you wish they didn't.