You wouldn't care for me if you trace my heart with your fingertips

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.

I hold on tight, until I smell her perfect stench drag across my unkept upper lip. She always makes my day better, when she, waits for me to make my mind up. I sometimes take her for granted, but she knows I'm loyal. You see, we have a good thing going, like mrs. Jones; she understands me. I wasn't always loyal to her, sometimes I would run the streets loud enough for her to recognize the cadence of my foot steps. I played games with her heart, only to be caught off-guard by her beauty, which shines bright reflecting light off of my review mirror. I'm a better man these days, we serenade each other until she eventually gives up. I great my morning with a hello, because I use to sleep through you. I was embarrassed to let you see me draped in garments from that night before I started to love you. I enjoy you morning. We share coffee on the porch like lovers. I read books instead of drunk message, while you embrace me with your wonder. I must say I love my mornings the right way.

She made threats to slit my throat while waiting for the number 8 bus. I can't remember the color of her eyes, but the smell of her breath reminded me of cotton candy left out in the sun. Soft touch on rough surface, this skin is mine to protect. She made threats to forget me while waiting for the number 8 bus. I waited for her to touch my face, but nothing became of her hollow threats, they fell upon deaf ears.
She slit my throat while waiting for the number 8 bus. I didn't wait for her to find my sweet spot. I stood behind myself and watched the color of her eyes turn black. Her skin became cold and my heart became numb. I'm nothing without her to make me feel alive. Her threats kept me even, made me aware. I will not survive without her, so I watch her eat cotton candy and make threats at the number 8 bus stop.