The Air We Breathed

This fox screams to the moon.

She gets round all my traps

as if nothing has happened,

as if it doesn’t concern her.

Earlier, she wore necklaces,

thus ever increasing

their value. She wrapped herself

in a shawl, and it was

like a sunflower field,

with birds walking through it

to pick every grain

of late tenderness.

When she was angry,

fury ascended through her veins,

like moisture in a rose stem.

The most important thing in love

is to never believe what is said.

She cried, “Leave me in peace,”

while really trying to say,

“Tear my heart apart.”

She refused to talk to me,

but her real intention was

to refuse to exhale the air.

As if she wanted to harm me

even more.

As if the air we breathed

was our biggest problem.