Such a feverishly longed for breath, the one that comes when the world evens out. The fifty degree winds that ride off the back of Spring’s first peek at the world. The tenderly accosting spray of a great body of water. To feel something silvery moving through the parts of your body that were closed off from contortion. Your rib cage opens like grand gates to air your heart out after a long winter.

Not to say that I didn’t enjoy the feasting. I’m not remiss to admit that I found some devilishly backwards pleasure in being delicately, gingerly devoured. There’s an almost dexterous way you pick the meat from my bones. It’s a melodic sound, the whispers between profound silences. A welcome sting, warm breath against my cold skin.

It’s but a climactic act from a play that only I star in. It’s composed in the still moments I have to myself. The world spins only according to the frequency of my affections. And so when the wind returns to my atrophied lungs, it’s a beautiful waking from an uneasy slumber. Too often I cast myself in these dark corners. Too infrequently do I allow the scene to unfold in the way only it can. I’d rather be here, in the light and free air. I think I’ll stay.

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