The Price of Memory

People don't breathe in all at once. It comes steady

through the day, like a focused bandit. Every moment

I see people with invisible bottles, vessels to carry

the concentrated air. They keep it by their side, waiting

for the proper moment to sip a bit, feel it in their blood,

live a moment,

while no one is watching-

I breathe you in. Immersed in your scent, I feel

the sensibility of your form skid across my pallete

and journey inside. Tough interior melts in your exhale

as my lungs curve to mirror your rhythm. You travel

into memory, touching the engram of our caress,

while I try to forget-

the bottles of breath that glide with the fog

of remembering, little souls left falling like shards

of broken clay, the soft imprint of lovers

saved like rations in case I'm left

here, caught between a sigh,

clawing to your breath like an infant.

-Shane Johnson