The Moss-house

Your house is rough with warmth
A muggy room with air that cloys
Inside my throat and fills my lungs
With sodden cloth that makes me choke

But you, you need this watered air
This windless, dank humidity
The mist that sticks to human skin
Is vital growing such lush leaves.

To keep inhaling makes me sick .
My chest is blown with swollen weight
A mass my gut can’t take, it quails
Beneath the load of stolen breath.

I’m forced to find another place
To leave you sealed behind again ,
For cold air lets me breathe as well
And feet don’t root me to the ground.

With me absent, you may remain
Unwithered, ripe with fruitless ferns
That lean uncaged, unseen, across
The rampant lawns of deathless green.

Commentary

I'll keep this short. This is another piece of coursework, about the moss-house at The Firs Botanical Grounds and Environmental Research Station, Manchester.
It's a Horatian-style ode - consistently in tetrameter apart from the first line, where I think any additional words would take away from the meaning rather than add to it. :)