Without Air

It's just a brush. A touch of skin, the faint prick of miniscule hairs. But it floods you, floods your mind, makes your legs weak and your brain warm. It's an endless second, in the span of which the Romans fall and the dinosaurs are born, but it's not enough. It will never be enough.

You can't help wanting more, like a drug addiction. You hope, you hope, and hope dies like cold embers as the world cracks and breaks. In this span of the world breaking, you meet her eyes, and the dinosaurs fall extinct. The moment has long shattered, and this is a place outside of that endless span. You cannot breathe, and you don't want to; outside of this place nothing exists.

Then she smiles, remarks and looks away, and the place is gone. The curtains are ripped from the walls, the chairs smashed into powder. She is moving on, not looking back, and it is expected that you follow. It is expected that you will remember nothing, hope for nothing, pray for nothing. You will continue to live, yes.

But for how long, without air?