(in the breaths you hold)
“you know, sometimes i forget to breathe,” she says, eyes set on the moldy ceiling above us, looking, but not really looking. i hum in response, letting my gaze rest on her. her old lamp illuminates the run-down, cheap, one-room apartment dimly, blanketing us both in warm light that just occasionally blinks. a cold breeze drifts in through the open window, and i can hear police sirens calling out to us from the world outside.
we lie flat on our backs on her sagging mattress. “i do it without knowing, and purposely, at the same time. it reminds me that i’m alive.”
she lets out an honest breath that sounds more like a sigh. i understand most, that just because you’re breathing, doesn’t mean that you’re living. my thoughts trail back to when we were moody teenagers, trying out all sorts of things, doing all kinds of crazy things. lying on this bed now makes me feel alive-to know that i’ve lived, to know that a thousand unspoken words and memories lie between the space between her body and mine; to know that i am here and that i have made it this far. our pinkies are just barely touching, and i feel so alive, so bursting with life, of the one before and of the one now. it’s quiet but tingly in my toes and fingertips.
“you know, i read somewhere that you can’t die by holding your own breath. something to do with the body.” i voice. somehow it feels like the right thing to say
she laughs. “i know.” it seems as if she does know. and she doesn’t turn toward me, but our pinkies touch, and i’m sure that she can feel the tingling, too.
written Jan 25th, 2013 8:47pm