When I see you

I count
backwards
from sixty;

take turns
breathing life
in and out

like the moon
pulls her tides.

I try to hold
air in lungs.

I try to
stop this
involuntary reflex.

The compulsion
to fight or flight.

The urge to
lose myself
in stale memories.

I try to
overlook this
heart I left
soaking in
jars of
formaldehyde
awaiting
resurrection.

It is far
too easy
to reclaim the
fleeting fervor
of yesteryear

in
quick anticipated
gasps held in chest.

It is best
to release
air from lungs,
count down,
breathe.

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