Your Lungs and All Your Sins

It's hard to breathe without your lungs
when you're down and can't quite catch up.
Are they on the bed, next your mistress
Naked and still from a silent slumber.
Or in the hands of a homeless man
empty hands, though they were.
Could they be in the eyes of a brother
whose purple tint tell tales of your own fist?
Maybe filed in the paperwork littering your desk
Somewhere between last year's and what you'll get to tomorrow.
Are they mixed up in your own words
stories of places you've been, things you've done, and what you have.
Did you top off your third helping with them
an added spice of too much, and more than you need.
Or are they in everything you're not
what you dream of and what you'd kill for.
With no lungs you cannot breathe
but are you really surprised they're gone?
There's no trace of their disappearance
nothing waiting for their return.