They trot and wade back from their night, woozy eyes blinking slowly in the dark. This invisible pool that surrounds them is tension, it is magic and for some reason they cannot stop laughing.
They pry the door closed and settle briefly in the warmth. The glowing bedside lamp is their only light. Its embers surround them, licking their skin and feeding their kisses.
They sleep entangled in each other, and it is a beautiful vulnerable mosaic. The rises and falls of breath are long and sweet and low.
Their bodies grow pale and cold in the daylight now, like they have been drained. The mosaic is a stark jumble of limbs and substance.
They part in the crisp with sleep and crusted eyes, heads and bellies dully aching and clothes sticky
And it doesn’t matter now who they are, or were, or will be
It doesn’t matter.
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