Air

I want to eat the air. I need the light of the fading day and the scent of the yellowing grass to fill the spongy empty places inside of me that I try, unsuccessfully, to cover up. I am embarrassed to need the words of your approval that flit through my conscience like ghostly fireflies and leave far too quickly, becoming questions in my brain and surreal memories in my heart. I want to eat the air. I want it to inflate my tired lungs and keep them buoyant when my spirit is anything but, to give me stable breath to shout aloud when the dark water presses its' palms to my chin. I want to eat the air, and I want to eat the tallest trees, the darkest dirt, the fading light. I want to eat the air to taste the way the words felt in your mouth before they rolled off of that tongue I have so often thought of. I want to swallow the atmosphere and float above the treetops, above the questions, above what is real and into what should be - could be - will never be - real. And I want you to be there too, alongside the me who is insatiable. I want to eat the air. I want to watch you consume your share in your graceful way, and laugh with your eyes as you pretend to be full. I will be laughing too- we both know we are ravenous. The light of the fading day will appease but never satisfy.