Breath

Sometimes, I can't breathe seamlessly.
I make a whistling sound with my nose, 
Sometimes the air rushes over my upper lip in a thin, weedy line,
Like a cool draft from that old, closed window with the worn out lining. 
Other times, I realise I am breathing from my mouth.
Panting,
Like a dog.
A dog's breath,
Taking in large gulps of the air greedily,
through my even larger mouth. 
My mouth, dry and needy;
The air, warm and changed. 
Molecules ending up in the exact same place, but routed differently,
Warmed up, cooled down. 
It is easy to forget both mouth and nose, when one is focused on air. 
But to be focused on breath...
That is personal. 
The body, an incubator;
A generator, or a machine, even an alchemist. 
A whistling, conscientious one,
Trying to turn air to breath,
Air to breath, air to breath.