how could we respire with chapped lips

I've never felt any of these

in a degree of consequence

always careful to clutch at

the lining of my pockets

whenever life threatens to

drift back towards sleep

retracing the bruises

ice on lukewarm skin

creates an illusion of fire

flames encasing your tenderness

white heat stings

the way your eyes do

in daylight after imprisonment

exhaustion imitating that of

too much sleep

surrendering to the feeling

of cotton tongue and

shaded sun, squinting through

hazes you anticipated

but never really remember

when you're in the thick of it