We were in a museum, looking at photos of dead lovers in Pompeii, Burned, charred, locked in their final moments - eternally preserved in lethal ashen amber. There was photos of two, a couple, One shielding the other from their certain fate - Arm up, as if begging, pleading, passionately sacrificing themselves first, despite the inevitable. I stand in that stuffy room with you, wonder aloud how much one must have loved the other to try and save them, despite knowing it was fruitless. ‘Don't be so sombre, love.’ You said, not even looking over before you tear me away by the arm, pull us both someplace else, aimless - ‘Neither of us are going to die soon.’ That comes out muffled, the words half-chewed, as you delicately place a cigarette in your mouth - Light it with my flame, long ago borrowed - molten red, flickering in and out of consciousness, and offer an attempt at a smile as the colourless smoke curls upwards from your dry lips. I don’t ask for it back. I know it’s pointless.