I’m Never Done Writing About You

I’m holding my breath like my
lungs are windchimes.
I’m awaiting the ringing through the breeze, the first gasp for air,
any waking sign that you’ve finally
returned home.

Do not dance in the wind just to leave me gasping.
I want to inhale you in gusts,
gulp in the dust
from the bottoms of your boots,
crusted in your soles like souvenirs from the cities you walked in.

You took forever to caress the tinkling steel pipes that have dangled in the light
of the many sunsets I counted while you
were away.
But you have waltzed through their tangles, have me rasping like I’m strangled because I needed you to be the air I breathed.

I am holding you accountable for the days the windchimes spent in silence; the days my lungs took a plunge and I could not, for lack of air flow, even scream.


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