Your Air

I was swept beneath your carpet once,
as if without your care,
the last in line to breathe your air
between the dust and spiders that sheltered there,
the last to breathe your air.

The things I saw, I'd heard about,
in the times you'd let me breathe,
the papers of sweets you'd once ate,
a corpse from when you'd fumigate,
it had run out of your air.

Periodically, you'd vacuum clean,
and sucked unto the carpet's fur ceiling,
the closest to you I'd recently been,
I'd gasp out for your air.

Through lint and mold,
I've heard wives tales of old,
behold a sky so big so bold, so slightly cold-
er than your bless-ed air.
And sold I'll stroll consoled and inhale my whole,
one day you'll find me there.
With lungs full of my fresh air.