permanence.

They don’t rest in my arms for long, 

because they sense the eternity of my grasp 

for I reek of permanence, 

of longing for hours more than he’ll spare.  

I breathe with a notion for heartbreak 

that comes at the hands of those 

whose quick-winded spirits nestled just 

long enough 

for some sense of familiarity to sprout  

in my rib cage and peek out of the darkness.  

They’re intimidating, these meager reminders 

that I am not a casual breath 

one takes as they pass, 

but rather the air they breathe  

until their last exhale.  

My arms were not meant for the promptness 

of fleeting infatuation  

that falls at their feet more frequently  

than they would care to admit or acknowledge. 

I have grown solemn in longing without despair 

for one who wanders by with the same sense of permanence,  

who chooses to lay rest,  

who chooses to exhale.