we forgot tinfoil helmets

It is raining inside:
flannel sheets and
our saturated shoes.

Side by side, we are
scratchy carpet
embracing cold shoulders;
nude torsos taut in unison.

I am in your bedroom and
you are not breathing.

Not dead or dying,
but turning blue for kicks.
Soon you will gasp my breath
and my lips inherit your chill.

We were looking
for existence but now,
we are too late.

a/n: Read into it what you will, any meaning you grasp is valid.