Wrapped and Tangled

Where there is no time the moments hang heavy in the air, making it thick, dense, like some tropical atmosphere that makes it hard to breathe and every movement becomes a struggle as much against the self and its torpor as with the weight and heat of the air.

Each of us lies defeated back on these tangled sheets, struggling back to some semblance of normal breathing, our bodies barely touching as though the earlier closeness when it seemed they had become one single writhing form on this anonymous bed has separated them again into two distinct beings as if that closeness violated some force meant to keep bodies apart.

Already those few moments before are escaping from us. We turn to wrap ourselves around each other once again, knowing that soon time will begin again and we will have to separate even further to walk away back into our own very separate lives. Lives where we live almost as two entirely different beings and where the times we share here, where time itself stays outside the door, are never acknowledged or mentioned, merely remembered when there is no-one else around to notice we are travelling away from that moment into another far different place and time.