The Story and the Breath

There is a story
I have carried with me,
soft at the edges,
lit like candlelight
in a place that no longer exists.

In that story,
everything lingers a little longer.
The glances mean more.
The silence says everything.
Nothing ends,
it simply pauses.

But here,
in this moment,
there is only breath.

Cool mountain air
filling my lungs,
steady, grounding,
real.

No imagined words,
no rewritten endings,
no almosts.

Just the quiet rhythm
of my heart
adjusting to the altitude,
reminding me
I am here.

I can miss him
and still be here.
I can love what was
and still breathe
what is.

The story is a place I visit.
The moment is where I live.

Right now,
I am living
in this breath.

And for this moment, that is enough.

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Harmonium1923 · 56-60, M

I really like this one—maybe your very best! I like the sense of place and the notion of adjusting one’s breath to thinner air. It’s a struggle at first, with headaches and dizziness, but then it’s followed by remarkable clarity and distant vision. What a perfect image. ❤❤❤

ChampagneOnIce · 51-55, F

@Harmonium1923 Thank you so much. ❤ I’m used to living at altitude, but it’s still an adjustment when you get to 10,000 feet. I sat on the patio looking out at the trees and mountain peaks this morning, and my thoughts drifted to a past story someone special to me had written. The poem came to me then.