In. Out.

Such a simple thing. You don’t even feel it. It just comes and goes. Like the wind, but inside you.  A miniature wind.  Every hour, every termini and every second.  Doesn’t take much to notice, and doesn’t take much to feel it.  Listen to it whoosh past you, slow and peaceful.  At least every night, when you’re wrapped up in your sheets and curled up in a fetus.  Listen to it thudding in his chest. Or echoing through her veins like an angry river. Listen because you cannot see it. Breathe because you want to. Not because you must.