by OWAIN GLYN EVANS
I sucked in that stale air like a bad pint, but you were savouring your dregs. My eyes were restless. They strained towards your crisp bed sheets, the white flecks on my fingernails, anything but your fading, half-closed eyes. I’d never kissed you before. Not when your cheeks were full, when your skin held you tightly, when your lips could gather words or moisture or smiles. But it felt right, then, to kiss you once, when not even my eyes could speak.