I can finally breathe and it hurts a little less. Except when my body, naked, craves the hold of hands, the tenderness of a love I used to have. Then loneliness hurts me. Hits me like a hard wave of bricks and I cry again. I remember myself to exhale very slowly. It slows down my pulse and the rushing thoughts. Breathing, as basic as love which is simpler than desire, yet that piece of everything that leads to it. Love is instinctual, desire is premeditated. Contradict me if you will.
Reader, writer, woman.