“Smother”

can’t get a breath. 
stagnant living sitting on my chest, thinks
it’s funny to smother, to deprive, to lay this pillow on my face and press.
My need for air so great I’ve got to drive off the edge
of something;  not mattering what, as long as it’s deadly steep.
The hollow calls. 
Come. Follow.
Become those shadows
we have heard all our lives whispers of.
How one morning they got up and vanished:
left the keys in the car,
license on the seat,
No clue. 
No letter of intent. 
No police guesses.
No evidence.
Let talk and reasons fall how they like,
like any forgotten day might fall,
or long hair in wind
or a leaf at its appointment, common and unnoticed.