The Air, The Air

I believed in you like the sun.

Magnanimous, significant,
always to return,
but the sun comes and goes,
has its faint winter days
and skeptical days of rain.

I should have believed in you like air.

Always there, regardless.

That is how I suffocate now,
always there.
That is where you go with me,
always there.

The air.

The air outside a bus in Washington.
The reflection of myself alone in
the window.
The scent of summer’s grass brush death.

The air inside a stagnant bedroom,
two thousand miles away from
the islands of Washington,
dirty clothes are with.
The air.
The air and sun are there.

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