Thank you… I think it’s the only language my nervous system ever truly learned—grief braided with clarity. If it sounds like emotion, it’s because I write it straight from the body, not the brain. That poem came from a place where even breathing feels like negotiation.
I really admire the way you convey your emotions… thoughts…
Thank you… I think it’s the only language my nervous system ever truly learned—grief braided with clarity. If it sounds like emotion, it’s because I write it straight from the body, not the brain. That poem came from a place where even breathing feels like negotiation.
I’m really grateful you felt it.
This moved me more than I expected—maybe more than I was ready for.
There’s something sacred in how you wrote this.
Not just the breath-counting, but the stillness around it.
The kind of stillness I’ve only known in hospitals,
or just after grief leaves the room—but before it closes the door.
It made me think of my daughter.
Of the last breath I counted that wasn’t mine.
Of how memory lives in the lungs long after the name is gone from the charts.
Thank you for writing this. For witnessing what most people look away from.
It didn’t just reach me—it stayed.
Peter, this cracked my chest wide open.
I’m honored—truly, honored—that you saw the stillness. That you knew the kind I was trying to write toward.
Your words about your daughter… I held my breath reading that.
Thank you for meeting this piece with your whole self. For letting it stay. For letting her memory stay.
I’m sending warmth to wherever she is, and to the lungs that still remember.