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Lungs like burnt paper—
folded too many times
by hands that forgot
how to be gentle.

Morning comes with wires.
He wears machines like
second lungs,
ghosts that sleep beside him
and hum.

Each breath is an audition.
He performs survival
on a stage made of ribs—
a collapsed theatre
with no curtain call.

They say he's brave.
He knows better.
Even the dying
don’t always want
to be remembered
as metaphors.

He coughs,
and something inside him
shakes loose—
a childhood, maybe.
A sandcastle
he never got to finish.

His chest heaves like storm clouds,
tight and swollen—
each gasp a fight
against chains
no one can see.

His sputum tastes like rust—
iron and despair,
bitter enough to sting
the back of his throat
every single day.

Medicine bottles line the shelf—
bitter pills, salty sprays,
a pharmacy of survival
he carries in his pockets
like unwanted secrets.

His laughter?
A spark
in a flooded cathedral.
It echoes—
defiant,
half-holy.

Doctors take notes
as if writing him
into science.
But he is not data.
He is weather—
unpredictable,
brewing.

Some nights,
he feels like a galaxy
trying to fit
inside a bottle.
Other nights,
just the bottle.

He loves anyway—
recklessly,
with lungs that bruise
like fruit,
with eyes that memorise
goodbyes
before anyone says them.

When sleep comes,
it doesn’t knock.
It slides in
through the window,
soft as fog
and just as indifferent.

Still,
he breathes.
Maybe not well.
But beautifully.
Like a hymn
the sky forgot
it needed.



In loving memory of my dear friend, Nathan Davis,
a brave soul who faced cystic fibrosis
with courage beyond his years.
Gone too soon at 22,
but never forgotten.

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