Exhalation

In the morning, I wait outside for a bus, To take me somewhere I can’t wait to leave, And I breathe into the not-quite-sunrise morning, And let my relief fog up the darkness. I wish to stop breathing now and then, Thankful for the too-cold-to-be-comfortable air, That, with every deep breath, Causes me to cough. I’ve always been imperfect, And when my breath freezes inside, And then freezes outside, I know it’s those little inside scars that cause me the most trouble, Because the outside ones are just a visual. When you’re in my head, There is nothing that will get you out until I satisfy the thought, Until I torture myself with every could-be and what-if, And until all those wasted I-love-yous give me so much grief, Until those wasted love-you-toos are so many, they leak out my eyes, To relieve my tired mind. Until I overwhelm myself with every word you ever spoke, And every smile directed at me, And all those not-quite-sure-what-to-say glances, Until everything I remember and think about you, and me, and us, I will have no relief, Not even my exhalation is relief enough from those cold, air bitten scars. But even when I am so exhausted that my tortured my mind gives out, Even when I am so sick of the very thought of you, You have to know, That I’d go through it a hundred times more, A hundred times worse. Just to spend another insignificant moment with you. Even though that little moment, That small, insignificant moment, Would cause me nothing but grief.