Holomovement

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