Machine in the Dark

The clock face a red blur.

No sound from the street, no hum

from the fridge, just

the ragged saw of my own lungs.

Inhale. A soft, wet hiss.

Exhale. A tired, slow sigh.

It fills the dark, a clumsy rhythm,

the only thing keeping time.

A machine inside this skin,

grinding, pushing air,

working hard to not stop.

My partner's breath, so faint and even,

is a distant island.

Mine, a sudden roar.

A fierce, small, desperate thing,

alone in the silence,

insisting on one more.