Is it weird that I’m counting down the days, not on finger tips or the little hand clock ticks, but on the absence of space in one sided conversations that begin with: “Hey I gotta tell you about…” but you’re not around. And so I keep them to myself. And I put them on my shelf organized and categorized in jars and binders labeled “For Min, don’t forget”.
I never thought to hold my breath’ while the air was running out. Because I’m not scared of drowning, or going without. I know that next breath in’ will taste all the sweeter when my lips meet the surface of your water and the air is mine again. I will breathe you in. And I will exhale stories by the gallon, and footfalls by the mile, and our paths will twist closed like our interwoven fingers, which have become inseparable knots. And I will watch’ for the smile that begins at the corners of your eyes and ends with your head upon my chest.
And I will breathe easy. And I will count freely. In the measured beats of our two hearts as one.
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