I yearn, I burn.
I lie awake at night, wondering if you're really asleep.
With the ceiling fan turning and churning.
Burning up, yet frozen.
The ache in my bones is dull, slow and steady.
Cold air smashing against my face.

I toss, I turn.
While you question if I'm okay.
Air, air.
I need the air.
It's not coming, I can't breathe.
My head wants to explode.
Burning up.
I'm cold.

I think, I learn.
And tell you to go back to sleep.
While I slip on thicker clothing.
I kiss your face, say it's okay.
Creep out the door.
My arms are stiff.
My legs are lead.

I walk, I talk.
To myself as the sun creeps up over the rooftops and trees.
As I find myself heading back to you.
You'll be up by now.
Wondering if I'm okay.
Curled up against the blanket.
Confused and concerned.


I breathe, I leave.
The world behind.
I quietly crawl in the window.
Because the door's too much trouble for my fingers.
You've been up.
Sitting against the doorway.
Watching as I stepped through the low window.
Biting at ragged fingernails.

'Headache,' I said.
And I kicked my shoes off.
And pulled the blanket over to you.
Wrapping it around us as I layed my head in your lap.
Bent over me, you kissed my forehead.
'Better?'
'Yeah, why didn't I think of that before?'
'Because you didn't remember to breathe.'