Breath on a Windowpane

Is it strange that I mourn the breath
that I held in my chest just yesterday?

Dull and throbbing as it left,
breath escaping into June air that shouldn't be so cold.

It's awake still.
Waiting, tapping on my windowpane,
begging for yesterday's safety from the rain
that threatens to wash it down the drain,
away from the lungs that held it.
Felt it leave as all others had,
its brothers and sisters expelled to the air that made them.
These breaths that stain windowpanes
until the rain washes them away.

Why has just this one come back?
Why that puff of breath?
Does it hold more of me than all the others?

A piece ripped free and flung away to aerosol,
screeching from the other side of glass
that its end will be mine,
that unless I let it back inside
I'll die just as sadly,
as the stain washed from the windowpane.
A smudge rubbed away and forgotten just the same
as hundreds before it.

Do I listen to it?
Should I?
This muffled screeching warning from the other side of-

Oh. There's the rain, come finally.
Shining down the windowpane
​in silence.