Bubbles

Wherever we travel,
the air pressure is alot lower than I'm used to.
I am lightheaded.
My precious secrets begin leaking out from the
large holes on either side of my evidently
large head.
They are fragile bubbles floating in the
mellow breeze.
Now there is little more thsn hot steam
escaping from the business of my brain.
They are mocking me, dancing right above my reach when they are plenty aware that my heart has ceased to perform.

My mouth is gaped open,
therefore no words escape
even though they want to.
So he decides to steal the bubbles of my thoughts.
The last thing I saw were my delicacies
popping under the touch of his ragged, mangled hands.
I am most relieved to witness
his frustration
as he rips the greasy locks from his dirty head.