Gravity doesn’t hold me with the same certainty
As it does others.
My lungs were only designed
To breathe in certain atmospheres.
Some days leaving the house
Means strapping into oxygen tanks
And holding the concrete
With my toes
To stop myself from floating
Into the cold indifference of the clouds.
When I meet others like me
I realize I’ve forgotten my native tongue.
Every tradition of closeness
I can’t love
Without a space suit on:
A helmet to separate our breaths
To regulate our chemical differences.
I can’t balance this
Kind of separation