they say that all air is recycled air;
that the oxygen I’m breathing right now could have been
the final breath that stuck in Kennedy’s throat,
or Marie Antoinette’s last sigh.
it’s comforting to know
that I am never really alone;
I’ll always have history rushing to my cells.
But it’s the middle of the night when I’m loneliest.
so I take a deep breath,
and wonder if the air in my lungs
still holds traces of you
(cause I’ll hold my breath forever to keep you with me)