Two lovers lie entangled on the mattress, biding their time. Taking a deep breath, the kind you take right before plunging into the water and knowing you might become trapped under it for a while but still planning to resurface. They do too – there ought to be a tomorrow waiting for them.
Then the sirens commence wailing, signaling the air raid.
There is a tense moment between the sirens starting to blare out their warning and the sometimes distant and sometimes close-by shudder of bombs hitting a target. Everyone’s own personal hell gamified, guessing where the bomb will land next and everyone wishing it will not land on them.
Yet somehow, the seal of stillness holds unbroken despite the din outside, held in place by their embrace. They barely move. The two lovers hold onto each other for dear warmth. There is not much cover for them, no more commute-work-bedtime routine to slip into nor chores they have been putting off that need seeing to, tucked as they are under the concrete stairwell. Home is no longer the protective cocoon, and that is its own kind of heart-breaking.
It is easy to conclude that not much makes sense anymore while the world crumbles.
The lovers, limbs interlocked, finally allow their breath to escape. They have been holding onto it for too long. Breathe in. They obtain confirmation they are still alive.
The more insistent the explosions grow, the deeper their fingers dig into flesh, seeking oblivion or keeping desire alive. Desiring to live.
Broken hearts can live on.
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