There's pain and excitement and anticipation caked under my feet. Elbows pressed into sides, a sea of warmth at my back. I'm surrounded in an ocean of people who aren't breathing. Not yet. They're waiting for the lights to dim. My lungs ache. Is it time yet? No, a few minutes, but I can feel the waiting, charging the air.
The lights dim, flicker. The guy beside me, who's been quiet since he slipped into the crowd, snaps awake. One moment existing, steady, and the next, he's alive. Awake. He breathes, I suffocate, lost in an ocean of gasping.
The speakers and floor shake, once, and I feel it in my chest. My ribs rattle a second time, aching. Is this what it feels like to breathe again? There's a shadow moving off stage— it's NF, it's NF, he's coming, I see him!—the bass ignites another earthquake, and suddenly, it's here. I'm here.
I'm here.
Air tastes like heaven in my lungs. I nearly choke on it, this newfound revelation:
I'm finally breathing.
YOU ARE READING
Dear M.
PoesíaA broken heart. A fragmented soul. One pair of earbuds. One still, small voice through it all. Take my hand and come with me as my earbuds lead the way through the dark and through the light.
