How is it still so easy after years of holding my breath to have never asked for air? I am inhaling all of you, every bit of oxygenated lust and attraction I can get. But it is not just lust, it is wishes and hopes and predictions of what I wish the future would hold. Of what it could hold.

I will never gasp for air, never once ask to let it go, because if I lose but a molecule of that perfect mixture, a part of me goes with it. And I am far too selfish to let myself lose it. To lose you.

I see the light up ahead, and I inhale the winds of change, the smell of progression that you exude in my presence, and in my memories. My thoughts roll and roll with the waves of you dazzling and rumbling like the constant breathtaking sunset you are.

When we touch, there is no air, no breath. You took that away instantaneously when my expectations took hold, just like your embrace.

I see the future, and all it says is that I’ve taken my final breath, in the promise of you. You and all of you and only you. And by doing so I exhale so fully as to leave nothing at the door. No doubts, worries or inhibitions, just the wish and hope that when I breathe again you will breathe with me.