Exhalation
In the morning, I wait outside for a bus,
To take me somewhere I can’t wait to leave,
And I breathe into the not-quite-sunrise morning,
And let my relief fog up the darkness.
I wish to stop breathing now and then,
Thankful for the too-cold-to-be-comfortable air,
That, with every deep breath,
Causes me to cough.
I’ve always been imperfect,
And when my breath freezes inside,
And then freezes outside,
I know it’s those little inside scars that cause me the most trouble,
Because the outside ones are just a visual.
When you’re in my head,
There is nothing that will get you out until I satisfy the thought,
Until I torture myself with every could-be and what-if,
And until all those wasted I-love-yous give me so much grief,
Until those wasted love-you-toos are so many, they leak out my eyes,
To relieve my tired mind.
Until I overwhelm myself with every word you ever spoke,
And every smile directed at me,
And all those not-quite-sure-what-to-say glances,
Until everything I remember and think about you, and me, and us,
I will have no relief,
Not even my exhalation is relief enough from those cold, air bitten scars.
But even when I am so exhausted that my tortured my mind gives out,
Even when I am so sick of the very thought of you,
You have to know,
That I’d go through it a hundred times more,
A hundred times worse.
Just to spend another insignificant moment with you.
Even though that little moment,
That small, insignificant moment,
Would cause me nothing but grief.
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