Sometimes a person stands on a balcony, or a cliff edge, and breathes me in. Some might shut their windows, close their eyes, and pretend I’m not there, that they aren’t breathing. But if no one interrupts, I fly through, tilting their portraits, tickling wind chimes, making leaves fall. In their convertibles, on their rocking chairs, in their fishing boats, they are open. When they are open, everything is perfect.