Brickwork

The rhythmic sounds of love and friction generate electricity;
the lighting flung from painted clouds strikes the wall-mounted
clock and our time begins to slow. People on the outside
may notice our absence but we can tell the weather from photographs
and the painted pictures on the walls – it's always summertime in
here. And beneath wooden bed-sheets we sit, safe and hopeful – we
talk of wedding bells and the cries of children; sounds of the things
that might have been. But I can't face the sunshine and you haven't
walked in days and the voices in the brickwork are getting louder.