prose

The Last Breaths

It is a forest, ageless and eternal
this perceived afterlife
within the living day
breathing in amid the cold pines
slower and colder
harsh inside my lungs
as I imagine the taste
of my final breath.

We were arboreal
children of this verdant womb
within its living green
birthed amid the rain painted leaves
but slower and older
we have forgotten our mothers
and our last breaths
will taste of stone.