The art of breathing without air has become normal behavior for me. I rest quietly under mounds of dirt, waiting for the perfect moment to ascend. I envision striking the atmosphere with furious rage, and nefarious intent; I will breath once more. Black skies can not hide bright stars, but all I want is to thrive during the light of day. This struggle leaves me numb for I have found my air like every x that has every marked it's spot. My air has a name, and it is the greatest feeling hearing what can not be seen, dance around my damaged heart. All I ever wanted slips through my fingers, for I acted in such a haste to care. My judgement has fallen, like an angel with no wings, I plummet Beneath my mound of dirt. This hurt can not match my feelings of regret. I'm feeling like life has a test and I've been forced to fail. The art of breathing without air has never been simple, but to feel her breath upon my cheek would make my journey worth the outcome.