Sighs

I love to communicate the fact that I’m in love with a moment by sighing in such a way that there is no way to miss it. I sometimes will avoid making the breaks in the lines and rather let is all hang out in the long out-breath. But that’s not a noun I know very well. For prepositionally, the lungs are surrounded, inside the outside, enclosed?

Prosaically, will you stick with me?
That’s what I’m usually asking
Because I know you’ll be here for the line breaks
They’re impossible to miss
And while I’m taking up this space
A little extra

Tying it together
I expect that you’ll be there
But when I take up a little more of the slack
Climb a couple of pitches
Without looking back
I’m not sure where I’ll be
Or if you’ll be here

It’s the prose that I fear: will it be seen? Followed? Will there be enough space to reflect? I think it’s why I take long walks and ride my bike with extra tubes far out into the countryside. And drink too much coffee, because when I’m not breaking up the lines, I can at least juice the system with the chemical of choices, even if the choices are made under a duress that the caffeine calls forth, on the wings of horsemen raging upon the sidewalk, difficult to avoid. But then, I look up, and I take
another sigh.