“wild strawberries stained a desire path to your door“

This morning is breathing for the first time. I swallow the air to capture its heartbreaks—like the scent of longing dripping from buttered jasmine flowers or the sun smothering the predawn blue or the heat of a hand around my neck.

What I am is wanton. What I am is inhaling. Time turns into itself as I envision my feet melting into the earth and the swell of your breath in my lungs.