'Where have you gone?' He asked. When silence answered, he adjusted his words. 'When have you gone to?'
'...home...'
'What do you see?'
'Walls. Shut doors. A bed. My bed. Maybe.'
'Why maybe?'
'I don't have a 'my'. No one does.'
'What do you mean?' But she didn't reply. 'What do you hear?'
'Drip. Dripping. Over and over. Crying. Screaming. Me.'
'Do you feel anything?'
'I feel a gap.'
'Can you taste anything?'
'Salt. Cold, running salt.'
'What do you smell?'
'Home.'
'What does home smell like?'
'Like breath.'
'Are you breathing?'
......
'Are you breathing?' He repeated.
......
'no'
22/Aug/18
~~~
Though he knew of empathy, he didn't feel it. Every time he asked her if she was breathing, she always replied 'no'.
When someone he loved became sick a few years later, he finally felt empathy. Then, at their last session he asked her, truly needing her response; 'You can't breathe. So how do you stay alive?'
'...I'm drowning...
'But I can touch the air with my fingertips. I can feel the air, but I don't want to breathe it; because the air is sharp with life, the air hurts. It is a vicious, deceitful pain, yet an awful pain that we need to be in to live. I touch the air, and it keeps me barely alive. When we give up on life, it always finds a way to draw us back in...
'I don't 'stay' alive. I am unconditionally part of life.'
He didn't say anything more. So she moved to face him, watching his grief.
She asked him 'Are you breathing?'
He replied,
'no'
22/Aug/18
YOU ARE READING
Am I 'Absolute'?
PoetryMostly poems and art, some quotes and short stories. Not everything is an original of mine, so if it isn't I will state so on the page. 😊 Also: Helloooo! Oh my gosh! #1 in original poems!!
