Breath Under Skin

In the dark, before sleep comes,

I hear the rasp, uneven and close.

My own breath, a ragged tide

rising beneath cracked ribs,

a ghost that won’t let go.

Each inhale a shudder, each exhale

a wet sigh caught in the throat,

a small sound breaking the silence,

a reminder of every beat,

every ache.

I listen like it’s a stranger,

something alien under the skin,

that follows me through the dark,

quiet but heavy,

a rhythm I can’t escape,

pressed soft against the stillness,

and there it stays,

unfinished,

waiting.