On the greyest days,
each draw of breath seems inadequate to living.
Waiting for air becomes an excruciating task.
The suffering commensurate to this world
is only tragic because of its beauty,
the symmetry of birth and death,
of joy and misery,
hunger and stillness.
I try to loosen my grasp then,
for what feels full is the most bereft
if it traps you there, preserved,