Alex Raup

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The only air I need is the kind you leave behind. 

All the rest is poison - thin, harmful, 
polluted by the lack of you.

Your body roots deep into the earth I walk on.
The only straight line I can manage 
is the one that leads to where you are.
I float above the world when we are apart;
lost, without an anchor, a helium balloon
of flesh twisting in the wind, an invisible
momentum.

My will is frayed, a string that dangles
beneath my body, out of reach.
It drags weakly along the ground, miles below me,
whispering your name with every lift and curve of my body,
as I float, aimless, above the places where I suspect
you might be.

And when you care enough to notice, this aimless

extension of me, you will sometimes reach out, laughing,

and begin to reel me back, very slowly,
until I am just above you. As I drift closer,

I can feel my limbs begin to grow,

re-purposed and delighted, breathing hungrily again

from your lungs.

But just above you, as I reach down to touch your face,

feeling more alive than I ever have, you let go of me.

In a panic, I feel the air around me thin out,

a nauseous gas, toxic without you, and I float away,

forgetting how to breathe, and already hoping

I'll be able to find you again.