more breathing drafts

It all happens too fast. Vision obscured, the smoky tendrils invading every inch of space. Every crevice. Tramping its dirt through fine haired rugs, taking your breath as an invitation, it forces its way into your lungs.

You can't breathe.

A wet cloth hits you in the face. Too slow to react. It falls to the ground.

The droplets linger on your face, pores screaming, but unable to find relief. The smoke continues to suffocate.

"The! Cloth!"
Frantic. Choking.

Seconds later the sodden cloth pressed to your face. Again. A different kind of smothering. The heavy liquid muffling everything. Slight relief. Then it burns, your lungs. Your desperate gasps suck through the moisture, a wet film of air.

You cough.

[I don't know how to finish this one? Is this finished?]

***********

Sitting on the aisle seat, battered by passengers' bags, bracing us both against the wild swerves of the bus. The hot wind floats in through the window. Your scent surrounds me. A laden sports bag thumps me in the shoulder. I smile.

***

My lips curve in sync with yours as if still connected by the imprints we exchanged. A contented sigh, a warm sweet breeze embracing, tickling my insides. Your eyelashes flutter like butterflies. They land on the firm of my cheek, dancing. Your breath a continual caress of Summer.

***

The radio blares like a siren filling the room from a distance. You remain quite still, eyes closed, perfect picture of peace as if it's the softest of lullabys. I resist the urge to trace the tiny capillaries of your eyelid, to race my fingers down your nose like a ski jump, to wet my lips against yours. I do not move a single inch, body balanced precariously atop your arm. The blood probably pooling painfully, yet you calmly inhale, your chest rising, exhale, your chest falling, my eyes follow this circuit, chest, then eyelids falling in step. I become one with your arm as we both fall asleep.

***

I close my eyes upon request, seated upon a wooden bench, my fingers restrained from fidgeting, folded neatly on my lap. I tuck my legs, crossed at the ankles, beneath the bench, out of the way. I feel my eyes flutter, still closed, but pulsating in rebellion. This stillness, a facade of my best behaviour, is unbearable in my nervous excitement. I hear with my pores tiny hairs shaking, muscles tensing, the whoosh of air sped up as it paces frantically in and out of my lungs. Everything is loud. Louder than the seagulls squabbling less than a metre away and the cars down the road. I pause, barely daring to breathe. Your lips land on top of me.

***

There's a heavy weight on my chest impeding breath. Air rushes in an out, amplified, but falls short and shallow. Reverberations digging deep, echo through my ribs. I feel them cave. I wish they would cave. I fall apart within.

[This one ended itself too early :( damn you writing, why won't you work with me!?]

drafts for breathing

Between the state of wake and sleep you bob amongst my thoughts.

Flashes of my day carried by the waves.
Things left undone, unsaid, lap against my temples, but
you
are surrounding me.

A message in a bottle floats just beyond my reach.
It grows legs, gills, and rows itself away.

My reflection in water is staring back at me. It waves and ripples. It's you, smiling, you're everywhere, encapsulating the sea.

I'm drowning. Not in your eyes — two orbs of warmth; winking suns.
But in this water
I cannot drink fast enough.

I leak filling this vessel. Every single pore.
Your scent.
Invading.
There's nowhere left to go.

Oxygen is pushed aside.
My lungs cannot believe
what it is I'm doing
what you're doing to me.

This.
It's overwhelming.

I can no longer breathe.



***



That blonde joke. You know. The one where she dies at the hairdressers. I always laughed at that one. I mean how ridiculous having to be told when to breathe, right? I guess that was the point though. Ridiculous, I mean.

I wouldn't mind right now though. It's driving me insane. Waking up just as I doze off, frightened I cannot breathe.

I'm not breathing well right now. It's nothing serious, mind you. Just a cold that's driving me insane. Nose slugs having stubbornly turned in for the night as if Medusa had turned them to stone. The congestion is worse than peak hour... in China. Did you hear about the traffic jam that lasted for nine days? Makes sense though if you think about it since 九 means longlasting. Just like this agony.