The sun bakes sweat on my skin
where your imprint lays dormant.
My breath is short and ticks
in my chest: a rhythm
out of balance with my feet.
I close mine to meet with your eyes.
A vision of your mouth without a smile
unearths the darkness hidden under
the soft coating of a tongue,
pulsing in time when we kiss again.
My heart thumps thickets
wild and unruly. That ache,
much like the stitch in my side, reminds
of a life withering within
my fleeing carcass on the tarmac.
I weed through your lies
until I cross a road I don’t know
and find I am turned around, going home.
All in the hope of recapturing
the breath I lost while running here to you.
(Jana Ferreira, 2015)
Words & Things 