My story is a short one.

Upon dying, I attained immortality,
but never lived a single day 
that wasn’t free of tethers and hooks
and the call of sharper things.

While I gasp through concrete, 
my friends rocket past in 
atmosphereless vistas. To them, 
it was as easy as breathing.

Can I grow 
gills that filter oxygen 
from setting stone?

My friends say yes 
while my throat
around gaping slits
turns blue.

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