Clear

We are stranded
On a mattress island.
The carpet lapping
Gently against the bed
While we sit in quiet unison
Like a waiting choir.
Our crossed legs, our touching arms
Coalescing in the pristine isolation.

I am in bubble vaccination,
A bed-bound vacation
And the earth can only rattle
The window with two hands
As the trees outside
Drop their autumnal clothes
And dance skeletal.

They don’t blush
Because I am too busy to look.
Waiting, daring you with silence
To glance up
And make me
And in that moment
Cause a breath with nothing but a look
Like a jolt of defibrillator.

A sudden, sharp inhale.
Unexpected, altering and pure
Oxygen that summons a gasp
Like a puncture from my xylophone bones
And pops the vacuum and breaks the sky.
Atomise me quickly.

Until, finally
You tilt your head
Upwards.
Your eyes lock on and you push back the room.

The second splinters, cracks
And I become white noise
Grasps for a clattering lungful
To fill me
With bits of your exhalation,
But instead I just remain.

My pupils stretch out
Into lazy, swallowing chasms
And I imitate the dead.

My blood slows. My blood shows.
My heart thumps, lightly.

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