your breath has a voice,
in its absence of sound.
it wraps its arms around
me, the way i need arms
to hold me. it whispers comfort,
but sometimes, just sometimes,
your breath isn't your breath;
its whispers aren't sweet, but
bitter, and its hands are rough—
no softness is felt on my skin;
yes, sometimes your breath is
a distant aftermath, a premonition
of displacement, a single traveler
left to remind me about something
i have forgotten.