The house is holding its breath. Mouth-shutting water all around,
splashed from between his lips. He is stone-still in that armchair,
never taking his eyes off her. They don’t remember exactly, it could have been like that
from the very beginning. A water-tight heart, one might fear.
But he knows better: love suffers through itself the violence of
destroying its limited satisfaction,
once confessed.
Or everything hardly bearable they could be doing right now
is a boundary of loving and losing immediately touch with.
She is surrendering from a corner to another.
She is unhappy, unknowing this could be the highest moment of their life,
still waiting for a voice inside her mind
to start talking.

The liquid is rippling quietly its compartmentese up to the ceiling
but they can’t drink it
because they think they are living in a void.



compartmentese: a language characteristic of using compartments instead of words