Wednesday, December 14, 2011

It's in between breaths that we disappear, thinning and fading and slipping, tethered only barely to nothing at all. Everywhere is always riddled with cracks, and it's easier to fall through than to not.

Equally easy, though, is falling in love with the soft whisper of a leaf brushing against your cheek in the chill sparkle of an early morning. So that's lucky. All of last week we were plagued by stagnant air, a hand pressing down on what is usually so light, reusing and poisoning and passing around. All foggy in the morning and brutally clear later, and no new breaths to be had for any of us. As though our lungs don't lay heavy enough in our chests, doing all the work of leaving and returning.

In the late nights I feel around the fist of my heart jumping wildly around in my chest, trying to dispel the fog with its own erratic rhythm. I'm almost sure that when I go transparent my heart hovers there in the air, waiting for me to come back. I almost always do, eventually.