The air feels brittle

Breathing it makes me sense
little sharp pieces of crystal filling me up
The crisp air making me more solid than I am
This will change at dusk
In the dark
The brittle air will make me brittle
I don´t want my feet to touch the grass.

An unbearable lack of ignorance in the breakable air

That night we sat in my kitchen
And you asked if I could cook
While I made you tea and served it cold
In a pink plastic tumbler,
Your shadow had weight.

I wanted to kiss you.
Instead I watched the air pulse
and swell between us into something inflexible,
something ready to shatter at the lightest touch.
You asked if I had more sugar.

You laid your head on my pillow
Without finishing your tea.
You were tired, and unaware of the delicate
glass or obsidian texture of the air.
I could not bear to sleep while the sky was breakable
So I drank down the rest of your tea like poison
And swallowed every sweet, fragile drop.

--me, Summer 2000