Breath Taking

I had my breath stolen. I opened my mouth, tilting my head back to allow a yawn its due course when the wind reached a chilly hand down my throat. The air rushed out of my lungs, the thief taking everything that wasn't nailed down. I tried to clamp my teeth shut, but it eluded the closing gates. Cold fingers stroked my ears. The thief's shape was only distinguishable by the leaves and loose bits of trash it had attracted to itself. In its hands was the wet air that had just been in my lungs. My eyes tracked it. Its escape route was betrayed by a plastic bag. I ran into traffic. Screeching tires, angry horns and close calls greeted me. I grab onto the edge of car to propel myself forward. I chased the wind through a maze of alleyways, finding the plastic bag and leaves being left like bread crumbs. All I can see of it is my own breath in its hands. I leapt for it. The wind flew away. I landed chin first on sidewalk pavement. Panting heavily, I still don't feel air rushing into my lungs. A gust whistles overhead. I fled, afraid of what else the winds would take from me.