Scratch of Air

Cough cracks the morning—

a ragged bird thrashing in the rib cage.

Hands pressed, clutching

like trying to hold water in a cracked cup.

Each breath a thin wire, stretched too tight,

frayed at the edges, scraping the inside.

Cold air bites, shallow and sharp,

a sting that settles and won’t let go.

I count the uneven breaths,

a rhythm broken,

shifting between shallow and desperate,

waiting for a cough to break again,

breaking me.

The quiet is a weight heavier than the cough,

and I’m left wheezing for air that tastes

like old smoke and tired mistakes.