you told me
to calm down
and breathe
and it's a good thing you did
because it was then that I noticed
the uneven sound of my
hyperventilation
and I heard the steady pace
of your deep breathing
which was funny
because I never really saw you
as someone who was steady
or deep;
because when we're laughing
it's so easy and when you tell me
that I look like
"the white kid who's allergic to bees"
it's hard to see
you as anything more than carefree
but today
something snapped
like a rubber band across the map
you snapped
and you told me
to just breathe
which was funny
because usually
you're too busy choking on smoke
to even remember how to breathe
since, see, in your world,
everything is different,
and you're too caught up in
swimming with the birds and
flying with the fishes
to pay attention and listen
and they say that words
can always have two meanings
and I'm pretty sure
yours have eight
because when you tell me
you'd rather
me punch you in the face
than hurt myself
to deal with the pain
I don't know how to reply
or keep my eyes dry
and I know you always told me
that I feel things too deeply
and that I should never
cry over something
I don't completely
understand
but your words still put me in tears
which is funny
because I'm sitting here
laughing at you
becoming Augustus Waters
"it's a metaphor, you see,"
but instead of a
cigarette between your teeth
your metaphor is
the words you speak
and I can't believe that
someone who leaves me
breathless
is telling me to breathe.