I Want to Breathe the Same

In your dead sleep,

or death,

you look the same.

The same old, dilapidated corpse,

exhausted for breath.

Your lungs feel bout de souffle,

yet all the air the earth can spare

seems insufficient for one more breath,

one inhale, one exhale,

to breathe you into dire wakefulness.

That is how I pine for CPR

from your untamed tongue,

your unquenched lips,

when I sleep,

caught in my nightmare,

under the torpor of a palaysed sleep,

waiting to wake and hear you say:

Yes. Oh yes, honey!

I am here.

We are together.

5 October, 2026