A Grammar of Unreturned Breaths

At every chance I get, I go cold, like a pulse slipping out of reach, like a body forgetting its weight and sinking without a sound. I let each moment take its turn at closing what little remains, until even breath feels borrowed and ready to be returned.

And I do it again and again, a quiet ending repeating itself, in ways too small to notice but never small enough to stop. There is no after kept for me, no second rising, no return, just a stillness that settles in fully and chooses to stay this time.