The Bubble

As I breathe, I cannot.
The air balloons within,
Catches in my chest-
A bubble which threatens
To burst any moment.
An explosion 
Will be rather welcome;
It's an implosion
I am afraid of.
Consuming me all
From my own withins,
Like a black hole left
By that morose, distant
Dying star.
But for now
That bubble refuses 
To burst; stubborn
It clings on to its
Flimsy walls
Pregnant with uncertainties.
How can it realize,
It's choking me?

Every moment, I live a death,
Every moment, I die a life.

The Mustache

An afternoon
Of languid desire
Alone,
Yet with you.
We 
Texted
Of word and work,
Weather and 
Whether to 
Take that quick nap;
Wished 
'You were with me'.
Slow long kisses,
Warm clutching hugs,
Squished breasts,
Ticklish beard.
Feverish embrace,
The primal dance,
A sweaty mingle,
Breathless tangle,
Your wavy locks,
Caught in my curly longs.

We exchange
Each a picture.
I send one without my shirt,
And you pout with a mustache,
Of your whorly inky hair.

Was I?

Was I the spark,
Or the flint,
Or was I the burn?

Was I the cause,
Or the effect,
Or a mere aside?

Was I the stab,
Or the blade,
Or was I the blood?

Was I the hit,
Or the bump,
Or was I the crack?

Was I the bullet,
Or the gun,
Or was I the hand?

Was I the question,
Or the answer,
Or was I the doubt?

Was I the make-believe,
Or the meantime,
Or was I the test subject?

Was I the scream,
Or the shock,
Or was I the past?

Was I the construct,
Or the truth,
Or the unwanted mirror?

Was I a choice,
Or an option,
Or simply expendable?

Am I the wound,
Or the scar,
Or am I the pain?

Am I of any consequence,
Or with any life,
Or am I all just in vain?