What is this under my hands?

What is this under my hands? I press hard to suppress, to quiet, to stop the beating of my heart because it is too fast, too strong, too alive. And then I remember, at least it is beating, when his is not, when one day it will sleep that endless dream and there will be no hands to feel the thumps, the pumps, the staccato song of free falling fear. The inhale (I am here), the heat (I am here), the prickling of my skin (I am here). Let me draw breath one last time, and another, and another.