Bellows

I'm lying on the oak where it is cold,

waiting for the room to stop its spin.

The floorboards are a century of old,

pressed against the surface of my skin.

The only thing that's moving is my chest,

a rhythmic, heavy scraping in the throat.

It sounds like something trying to find rest,

or water hitting wood inside a boat.

A single dust mote hangs above my face,

drifting in the air I push and pull.

It’s a loud and lonely, private space,

being empty while the lungs are full.