He has, like me, a sense of smell. I let him inhale me, then I slip away.

What is the real breath of a man — the breathing out or the breathing in?

I debate whether or not to hold my breath. Is the massive, wheezing inhalation that follows worse than all the small little puffing breaths I might take instead? (I often debated this when a squad mate would lay a fart with a howl of laughter. Breathe normal? Or put it off and then risk sucking that fart so deep into your lungs that it stays there forever, little fart cells melding way inside the core of you?)

I did not die, and yet I lost life’s breath

I did not cry. I only breathed. Horribly. Intentionally. And then forgot to breathe.

He breathed out the bitter air that makes women doubt everything, and I breathed it in, as I had always done. I expelled my dust, the powder of everything I had destroyed with doubt, and he pulled it into his lungs.

I have breathed my way through so many people who I felt wronged by; through so many situations I couldn’t change. Sometimes while doing this I have breathed in acceptance and breathed out love. Sometimes I’ve breathed in gratitude and out forgiveness. Sometimes I haven’t been able to muster anything beyond the breath itself, my mind forced blank with nothing but the desire to be free of sorrow and rage.

I expelled my dust, the powder of everything I had destroyed with doubt, and he pulled it into his lungs.

But with a sigh he had released her hand, while she was so lost in the fantasy that she hadn't felt it go away, as if he'd known the best moment to let go.

He was holding his breath so as not to inhale the odor of democracy.

When I'm with you, I don't breathe quite right.

And when I breathed, my breath was lightning.

Let the breath lead the way.

Once, as he inhaled with his customary vehemence, I had a thought that made my armpits come alive.