Thursday, 15 September 2011

'To exhale.'


I'm drawing patterns in the dust I suppose.
I should be inhaling, nostrils
But I cannot, because I am not ready
To exhale.
My lungs are still cushions from my childhood,
Plump from two decades of myself.
The technicolour, VHS flash flood of my memory
Is as precious as air.
And I am not ready to exhale.
I am not ready
To exhale.

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