"The climb is never the hard part, actually."
Erasing tiny fragments of
breath like escaping pain:
A forced reentry.
Clawing like a sky-starved prisoner.
Fingernail to stone, I draw you nearer.
You are the fog and I am the steps.
Or maybe I'm the fog
and you're the headlights of the oncoming traffic.
Slicing the air the way fingers slice thighs,
leaving behind stories in these gestures
like fingerprints on glass.
We count the inhalations
and check off each exhale
as if we're adding up our earnings.
As if we'd accomplished something worth while.
Like building character
the way a scratch on a lens adds vein for a pulse.
I am the scratch
and you are the pulse.
Or rather, we are the pulse
and those stairs aren't going to climb themselves.