Arcturus

In the same house as me

There before I was born

An older brother

You were there

In the worst of times

You laid on my lap

A sole comfort

We both grew up in the same environment

With the same woman

You left us too soon

The expanding of ribs, permitted by intercostals.

My lungs filling with new air, never clean enough.

Hold.

The burn of keeping in the oxygen.

I can feel it traveling through my arteries, exchanging at the capillaries.

Exhale.

Never slow enough, the waste in my veins expelling too fast.

I cannot describe it, but my heart is pounding.

I feel it in my chest, right beneath my bruised sternum, the hollow between my collarbones, at the base of my neck.

I've had phases of things that I think would be fun to do or hobbies I particularly like, but nothing I particularly aspire for.

As a little kid I wanted to study space or dinosaurs. At some point I wanted to be an author or songwriter. People told me to be a therapist, or a teacher, or go into politics. I wanted to be a marine biologist, or go into tourism. I've wanted to be an artist or study the humanities. I wanted to study neuroscience, major in piano. I wanted to study floristry or conservation. I could've been a historian. I could've gone into swimming, or figure skating, or archery.

how it's done, the frequency ("like trimming my nails"), intention (or lack thereof).

you tell me, "I'm not going to ask you to stop"

it's a twisted relief. I still try to justify. I know what it would take, what it's doing.

Quickest route, no brain fog no dissociation no memory loss. No freeways.