I find you curled up at the bottom
of a long breath, having followed whispered
instructions from the front of the room.
I draw the air deep into my belly,
let it become a balloon, feel the skin
grow round beneath my splayed fingers.
My ribs stretch and I discover you there –
in the space you did not fill, just like
your brother; gone at the exact same point;
raindrop days, unmarked in a diary.
I’ve come to accept your failure and mine
but remember how, for a short time,
we grew together. My breath snags scarred
tissue, lingers, exhales into the light.