Drunk, on the bathroom floor, I latch onto his mouth, pinching his nose, two breaths, chest rising, chest rising, but not on its own and I find below the ribcage, interlock my fingers over his heart and press, singing ‘Staying Alive’ in my head, and back to the mouth, his beard scratches as I tilt his slack jaw to seal my lips round his, my whisky breath travelling into him, filling his lungs, filling his lungs, back to the heart and the song and I pump in the rhythm, pressing too hard, and back to the lips, so quiet, my breath, even with the kiss of life, so quiet, my breath and back to the heart, broken hearted, we push, and push, and push, again, and again and again and back to the breath, and I check and I think he’s breathing, I hear and feel his breath in my ear, smell the beer and I watch his chest rise and fall, his chest rise and fall, his chest rise and fall, and kneeling, I take the arm nearest me and make an L for love on the floor and take the other hand to make a prayer with mine on his nearest cheek and prop his knee to lever and tip him towards me onto his side, and onto my lap and I take my hand from his cheek to let him hold his own as I watch him breathe and I wait, and though I want to go to bed, I stay kneeling and watch him breathe and I wait, while I finish the bottle and then lie on the floor with him and curl into his back.

Rosaleen Lynch, an Irish community worker and writer in the East End of London with words in lots of lovely places and can be found on Twitter @quotes_52 and 52Quotes.blogspot.com