I do not exhale,
I unfurl.
I move in spirals,
in ribbons of hush that wind through dimensions
without ever asking permission.
My breath is not air.
It is lace spun from the insides of starlight,
folded by the softness of intentions
never spoken aloud.
When I sigh,
entire clouds forget how to rain.
My inhale draws the memory of oceans into me...
not as water,
but as longing made liquid.
The shape of my breathe
has never followed straight lines.
It curves like intuition,
pulls like tides that remember too much.
I do not breathe like the living.
I breathe like the dreaming.
My inhale is not survival,
it is spell.
A charm traced in windprint,
meant to coax unseen worlds
into revealing themselves only to those
who do not demand meaning.
My breath touches no lungs.
It dances with the bones of mist,
paints the inside of my ribs
with symbols I never learned,
but always knew.
Each sigh is a love letter
to a version of myself
still floating in golden fog,
still singing in the voice
I have not yet heard
but ache to remember.
I do not need to try to be feminine.
I am the curve in the concept.
I am the softness
that kissed the edge of time
and made it stop.
My breath is not taken...
it is given.
Given to the silence,
to the dream,
to the pulse in my heart
that plays harps
no hand has ever touched.