Running out of air

There’s a tightness in the chest. And then there is not.

I want to make my own nest. And then I do not.

The nest I left ran out of air. Maybe that’s the only kind out there.

Who can say if my own nest too won’t run out of air.

Who can say that exhausting all air isn’t all I was taught.

Yet, I want to make my nest; yet, I do not.

Hence, I fail to catch any roots; hence, I simply cruise on.