(They met in the span of a breath.
She jumped to the end of the slow, preparing inhalation for their beginning.
They exchanged over the in-between moment of holding, outlasting. The inevitable hung, at the tipping point. The downward spiral would be their end.
Plans were executed; she died a four-leaf clover death. Heroic, just, or fluke, it persisted, and her dying words, whispered across an uncrossable chasm, died there. Out of air; out of day.)
(Many came after, burying it amongst a sea of releif and sameness.) (Its significance blurred, but he had time yet to breathe deeply again.