Compose a message, yes please, I send my feelings through the glorious network that is the Internet, A world filled with images, documents, information, I wait for the reply, the notification that you've received my heart. Maybe it reached your spam, or maybe you forwarded it straight to your trash, I hold my breath for you, not because I truly want to, but you are my asthma, You're my inhaler: every time I see you I am refreshed, Like my soul emerged from the depths of an icy ocean, The sword your body creates cuts me every time you turn, My body paralyzed when you say my name, rushing to think of something to say in return, My breath halted, not because I chose to pause it, but because you're my asthma, I would freeze my feelings and serve them to you, Heat it up in the microwave of what could have been, Use the fork of what probably won't be, And enjoy them like a typical TV dinner; The meal still lingering on my breath, I choke, not because I ate too fast, but because you're my asthma, What lies behind the doors of your eyes, I gaze unfalteringly into them, hoping to unlock it, You hold my gaze right back, what does that mean, what do you feel? Is it just a look of wanting something to happen, or do you wonder why I look? You're my Miss Fortune, my muse, my unlimited inhaler, Yet I choke and cough, not because there's something in my lungs, but because you're my asthma.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.