Keat's house.

This house is filled with quiet breathing.

Most of the light is blocked out by wind-down shutters; maps and propaganda posters visible by the workings of a desk lamp.
I wish I could stifle my coughing.

The bed is twice as large as my own, which is convenient in the off chance that it'll be inhabited by two people. Two sleepy people. Drowzy. Dozey. Dopey, as you like to say it. Breath.

Your hands are routinely cold from the bathroom, and my skin boils under the covers while I wait for you. You slip in and off, hands around my waist and lips against my back. Breath. Breath.

You draw in deep the scent of my hair: "to make sure it's not an impostor", you say, "you have a Sally smell". The idea of even having a Sally smell makes me nervous beyond repair. Don't forget to breathe. Breath. Breath. Breath.

I like run my fingernails along your back. It's all those noises you make. Small, satisfied, almost triumphant. And you twist, and you bend, and you shudder at this movement. At the drag of a fingernail, well positioned. You bite your lip. You stop. Stare. Kiss. Mumble sweet words. And we breathe. Quiet breathing.

Breath. Breath. Breath. Breath.
Snore.