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You stood tall as I collapsed into the breeze.
It was an effortless transition: from lost to carried.
You were always someplace beyond the air.
You’d transcended the human need of oxygen.
The oxygen that danced and spun all around everywhere.
The movement would settle. Yes, eventually it would.
I’d been promised.
And I clung to this promise as my most crucial truth.
I was getting dizzy.
I liked to breathe in the breeze.
The air was sweet on me, never leaving me alone.
Gliding into my nostrils.
Never forgetting soft midnight kisses.
Wind sways as it pleases. To be free’s the point.
But, for you, the point’s to pinpoint all the points
Of all the things which have no meaning at all.
You should experience airy whims.
They’re the start of all stories!
You’ve claimed to have no use of stories.
You are a statistician: no musings needed here.
Well, the breeze hugs me tight and responds to you:
And, no rigid digits here, dear.
I say there is no boundary of pressure.
Instead, boundaries distinguish
Your known numbers from my windy wonderings.
But where those lines lie are in the air.