They tell me to write what I know.
But I don’t know anything,
except how to feel
and how to breathe.
I feel the soundless calm
as I draw deeply into my breast
the still and humid air around me,
and then slowly exhale.
I feel the snow on my fingers
and the bite of melt water
on my palms
while frozen air burns my lungs.
I feel the glaring sun
on my reddened face and shoulders
on as air rises in the heat
and lifts fresh scents to my nose.
I feel my heart
explode in my chest
when I see her for the first time,
and I need to remember to breathe.
I also feel superhuman strength,
pouring through me, lifting my soul
higher, being drawn up by simple words
as she breathes, “I love you!”
I feel the her delicate touch
sensuous against my sweat-soaked skin
under our over-warm duvet
with air filled with passionate aromas.
And I feel the desperate pain
of the heart ripping from my soul
as I watch her walk away
while I breathe empty, cold air.
Now I feel the comfort
on a lonely grey Sunday,
as rain patters the window panes,
of a steaming mug of fresh ground coffee.
Malek Montag, Rochester, September 2015