Misconception Of a Sigh

I am not a 'dear god' and I don't write letters with your breath. I write epilogues. Loose ends are tied within the lapse of time and existence, all of which I take to declare a moment. Quite literally, a breath. Sometimes, however, you rouse me with a lament. Yet, I'm quite sure I don't write complaints with your sharp exhales. In fact, I can't write at all. Or dictate, for that matter. You and I simply breathe and that's that. But it's what we breathe that makes it oh so fascinating. From hushed promises to sibilant curses, all accommodated in one comfortable expression. I personally like to think of it all as a glib of unvoiced knowledge. Mute words mocking our inability to share them. Or, mostly, your inability.

I'm naturally graced entrance through the gates of your soul, in and out in and out. I'm more than familiar with your teeth and your lies, down your throat and behind your lungs. You might wonder why I simply don't float away, a question I often find myself asking. Yet, after many traversed journeys through your ocean of regrets and remorse, I found it impossible to leave. You see, reader, I'm as chained to you as you are to me. I would be, much to my chagrin and irony, nothing without you. But then again, you'd be much less of what you are without me. This is the cruel fate you and I have been confined with.

By now, reader, I'm certain you've asked yourself how I've learned to feel or know all of this. You'd be surprised what one can learn with my travels, after all, aren't you my guide through the world you call emotion? Adding to that, I am forced to indulge in self arrogance to remind you that I'm the one that makes you human.

So, dear reader. I came to the silent conclusion that I am more than what you make.