Air

Unfair. Despair. Repair.

Weighted words,

filled with the lightness

of air.

The trajectory of my life:

an invisible affair with approval.

Childhood measured in

obligation for oxygen.

Love was earned,

not given.

We aired our dirty laundry

for sympathy—

it came closest to affection.

Breathing became an act

of resistance.

A fairytale romance

swept me off the ground—

a whirlwind decade of

clarity, cloaked in despair.

Inhales shallow,

exhales deep.

Then she came along.

Seven pounds of unimpaired

love—

filling my heart,

and my lungs,

with life.

Teaching me,

showing me

what it really means

to live.

I didn’t grow up with

that kind of air,

but I am learning

to make it now:

Spaces for being.

For listening.

For questions without consequence.

For trust without transaction.

A sacredness,

in a world gasping

for this kind of

repair.