The room is stuffy and filled with ravens perched too close.

They look at me while they jitter and wait.

I fill the seconds with pounding and racing and desperately remembering.

There it is. Hold it tight.

This moment has to end and I breathe in t-shirt lint one more time,

The next paragraph depends on me.

The breath comes out.

With the breath comes flowers and thorns and paper airplanes,

And chipping paint and violin strings,

And years and ink and shiny Cd’s,

And fresh air and metal chairs,

And changes and sameness,

And time and love,

And too much and not enough,

And all the times you told me to and I didn’t.

I’m doing it. And you’re watching me do it.

And the paragraph ends.

And I breathe in again.

This poem is about: 


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