Mourning Breath

The Editors,
Times Staff

Their breath kept landing timidly on my neck. However, I did not seem to mind. At first, I even thought it was mine. Each night their breath would change its shape, alter its texture, and fluctuate its temperature. I'd swallow it. Tonight it had the warble of a spilled embryo. While brushing my teeth every night before bed to ward off the plaque, I would try to guess what their breath will feel like this time. Bulbous, sandy and cool, or maybe Squirrel-shaped, moist, and blistering white-hot.

Last night it felt like sandpaper unsure of its own degree of coarseness. It wasn’t the finest grades barely whispering its existence, but not the gravelly roughness of rumbling rock either. Given the wretched insomnia of this week, I hope tonight their breath comes a careful breeze, so soft it's barely a breath itself.

I hope to take that sandpaper that’s been scratching at me, and use it to smooth over the hard edges of life, soften the bright lights and loud sounds, find some softness and delve into a deep sleep. To sleep, to dream!

To dream of a warm soul’s breath brushing against my neck, and begin again.

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