It’s not a gasp for air
But a silent siphon
Emptying your lungs so slowly you wouldn’t even notice
Were it not for the goosebumps the soft breeze leaves behind.

It’s not a wet sorrow
But a shriveling one
Leaving in its wake the dry husks of almost-joys
Rattling and scraping in the rising wind.

It’s not an emptiness
But a sucking void,
A tornado stealing everything in its path –
Even the words still stuck in your chest.