The breath of brevity

 The stinging in my eyes are that which travel through a smoke filled air as contagious a bead of sweat which slide about into your orbitals. 

You squint as you fail to see what lay ahead.
So you rely upon your psychic sensibility,
taking you where you've never truly before been.
It so happens there is no way out.
Yet this does fail to alarm you.
You are unafraid of it...
Of what can be.
So you seat yourself next to the nostalgia.