Two Flights Up, The Air Goes Thin

The first flight, fine. The second,

my legs felt heavy, like they'd turned

to concrete blocks. And then the air,

just... pulled back. Not enough.

A sudden, sharp awareness of the intake,

the effort. A hollow ache bloomed

in my chest, under the ribs, a frantic

flapping. Not tired. Just. No.

My mouth went dry, a metallic tang

on the tongue, like old pennies.

I leaned against the cool wall,

listening to the silence of my own body,

the frantic, useless gulping.

It was just two flights. My apartment door

right there. But for a moment,

my lungs, those constant, faithful workers,

just forgot. They stopped.

Or I forgot them.