breath

In my dreams, your hair is longer,
your lips still soft.
My hands start to wander
down your chest,
but there’s no heartbeat—
just an empty, cold cavity.

I press my sternum
against your breast,
transferring my heat,
hoping your breath will return.
But you lie there like a mossy stone,
collecting my life over your frozen bones.

I doubt you still think of me,
but you remember my love—
ravenous vines intertwined around your hands,
faithlessly holding on,
forming around you like fingerless gloves.

I tend to grow in cold, absent places,
devoid of light and nurture—
the familiar torture I’m native to.
You remind me of home,
where I curl beneath your stone
and hopelessly grow.

Your mountains collect snow
this time of year,
and I wonder if the frost
will finally let this love die.
I’d rather be released,
like new seeds escaping in death,
than continue depleting my oxygen
to feed your breath.