Out of time

Following the long clean broken line of sight we fill in the gaps with the only words that fit: separation, dust, fulfillment that is in itself no more than rain.  No, he did not love her, nor she him, but both knew with certainty what was at stake and a sort of dreamy dialogue between the two would follow and conclude in an embrace, as much understood as the speech of an idiot who says one thing and means another.  They spent their nights together, hungry for each other, the darkness as harsh as a hammer upon an anvil, leaving them both barely alive and without breath save the one they shared. In the morning, they would be strangers again and would remain so until the one, feeling on her skin an approaching storm or the dry cacophonous clattering of leaves, would fall upon the other as though he could bury her whole, devouring her cries like dry sand a sudden summer shower. He knew her then, knew himself, the long clean broken line disappearing from sight.