Breath's Quiet Sound

Night leans in through the cracked window,

a slow cough fogging the glass.

My breath drips out in wet sighs,

sticky and thick like wet wool.

I trace the smear where breath has left

its shadowy print — a pale

ghost clinging to cold glass.

The room holds still, but I hear

myself like a restless animal,

fading and gathering, rough and ragged.

The quiet folds in,

cradling the ragged rasp

that is all I have,

all that is alive

in the dark.