Smiling Without Breathing

I hate to be the bearer of bad news,
but it seems as though I've forgotten
how to exhale. I took a breath and breathed
you in and there you've been since.
I'm sure that if I were to remember
how to let out my lungs, my breath would
smell of your sweetest scents. The walls of my
lungs begin to heal with every touch from
your finger tips. I blame it on your
insatiable, unconscious desire to cure,
you'll tell me you're just trying to warm your
hands. My cheeks become flush with reds and pinks
at first. They expand to hold you in longer
forcing my ears to pop. Everything sounds
like we're underwater now, and that's how
it feels too, when you forget how to let go
of the air inside. Sometimes there are a few
sharp pains piercing through my cheeks,
up to my temple, and they end up in my brain,
sending signals through every nerve in my body,
urging me to exhale. But most of the time,
I'm happy to turn blue for you.