Suspended and Afraid on a Breath

Is it alright, my love,
that I fear your breathing,
that I tremble in time, with it?

Is it alright, my love,
that in your breath
is the absence of breath
and a leaving?

Is it alright to look slow
upon the glow that lights
your now and ruddy face,
lost in some distraction,
to see not you, but the olive
worn fabric of a chairback,
a tossed blue robe waiting there
in a grief and a wailing?

Oh, my love, as you rise
and drift into your bathing,
I know that later, I will press
against the warm knobs of your spine,
will sink my face into your wet
coconut hair, run my fingers
along the slope of your hip
until you sink into a breathing,
until you sink into a twitching,
soft snored night, shorn of our day,
shorn of us, and find myself
awake, afraid, so very afraid,
suspended in your breathing.

Image: Jake Colling on Unsplash

6 Thoughts

    1. Thank you, Mae. I cannot approach a love poem without the sense of that love not being there. You know what I mean. True love, to me, requires work, attention and is ever fragile, easily blown off like dust whether by chance or neglect.


      1. I know exactly what you mean, love tends to cast a big shadow where fear dwells. It’s the price we pay for such a gift. Can’t love without being afraid, almost makes you not want to love- cheesy as it sounds.


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