Getting ready to go running I look outside say I’m not sure it’s raining. Don’t be a wuss, you say. I say remember my uncle Terry? Remember? Shit, you say, I remember. Slipped off the curb and bus broke his head, I say. I remember, you say, and still you tie your laces.
        In rain we run and thud thud thud I think of uncle Terry screaming on the inside not the out as rubber crushed his mouth tight shut. You hit the pavement hard not thinking of uncle Terry listening to shit on your iPod setting pace too fast for me I stop and walk a bit. A bus goes past I edge towards the hedge but you I see you balancing on the pavement edge and getting splashed and honked by passing cars and still you run and I turn back.
        You say what happened? You’re coming through the door all wet rain dripping from your ears. I’m sitting in the armchair reading coffee on the arm I say I thought of uncle Terry and couldn’t help myself. You say you been crying? I say no it’s the rain I’ve been reading. Reading what? you say, you’re drying yourself with the bath towel we share. I say a book I got from this woman in the street. You say, about? I say, about inner peace and read on, on, shut the noise right out.

You are you. Sitting, legs up crossed at the ankles on the armchair arm, arms folded around thighs, eyes locked fixed firm at opening scenes of Holby City. You are always who you are. In sleep with arms tucked back behind head and lips letting dry air dry the tongue and faint snore rising you are still you floating at the ceiling’s height in my head. You. At midnight you are you. At dawn you are still you, and you stir as I button my shirt and your arms are out eyes prised open like cracks and arms around me warm breath like sleep you are always, always, always. I leave for work you are you, sat up propped against pillows tea at lips and sip after sip makes the sound that is you, is your sound, and the smack of your lips and your kiss on my fingers is you saying bye without words. You are you. Sitting, legs up crossed at knees now arms behind head as I grab your hand pull you you’re you, and I’m me, and you’re you.

• Sam Osborne is a 23 year old writer living in South West London his wife. he is currently studying on the University of Kent's Creative Writing MA and has had work published in several of the university's anthologies. He has also recently read a short story for Tales of the Decongested and has work forthcoming in Litro.