Your breath ground me to a halt. Standing in between the always tenantless parking lines that stalk the outskirts of the high-end mall. Your breath forced me to breathe you in and look up at your crisp sky as it neared supper time. Though it is the gifts of your colour that amass all the fanfare, it is your breath and your sky that solidifies this perishable existence.
We all use you as our therapist. Your powers transcend that of deadlines, soon-to-be-forgotten mortal concerns, and fleeting desires. Your treatment sessions force us to stop and smell the literal decaying foliage as we complement it with volumetric plumes of cinnamon. Your presence allows the extroverted to prepare for winter’s hibernation while the introverted make plans to take over the trails in the absence of the stupid, the loud, and the proud.
It is your breath and clear skies that reign in my temper. Your breath clears sinuses from the ammonia and formaldehyde-filled rooms that have occupied and marauded our lives since the plague first overfilled our morgues onto city parks.
It is your breath that reminds me of the fortune to be able to stop and not be impeded by any set of traumas to enjoy your demising beauty.