One Breath
I never thought it would end this way.
I was standing beside you the day
they announced the end of time.
We held hands and listened
to the click-clack as they wound up
the final countdown to our oblivion.
Thirty-seven hours, eighteen minutes, seven seconds
and our minds will fold in on themselves
as our bodies try to keep track of the days
that no longer exist.
Thirty hours, four minutes, fifty seconds
and a tear-drop falls from your face
to splash on the bricks outside our apartment,
spreading a salty life to the last few plants
that survived the solar holocaust.
Twenty-eight hours, thirty-five minutes, twelve seconds
and you’re ripping your clothes off
in a fit of desperate need
clawing at the mattress and calling out my name
asking if I love you
but not really giving a damn.
Twenty-eight hours, nineteen minutes, forty-eight seconds
and you’re crying on the floor
asking for forgiveness and praying to a god
that only existed so long as we didn’t
that never answered your cries for help
except to thunder down in glory
and tell you you weren’t good enough
Twenty-five hours, eight minutes, thirteen seconds
and consciousness slips away from you
as we lie on our tattered sheets
to watch the radiation drip down from the sky
and plaster the sidewalk with an invisible death
soaking the revelers who know they won’t last
so why not feel the rain on their skin
one last time.
Eighteen hours, fifty-three minutes, eleven seconds
and you wake me with a violent tremor,
eyes closed and mouth clenched tight,
so I hold you close until the nightmare passes,
press my hand against your head
and remember what it felt like
before the chemicals that saved our lives
took away what made us beautiful—
what made us human.
Sixteen hours, twelve minutes, one second
and you turn your eyes to mine
ask me if it was all just a dream
if your mother is still alive
to pester us about getting married
but I shake my head
and turn away—
false hope hurts more than the truth.
Twelve hours, thirty-eight minutes, nineteen seconds
and we let our bicycles fall to the dirt,
the field in front of us barren and hazy
but still recognizable as your home;
we fall to the ground
our hands intertwined
and wish we were gone.
Ten hours, fourteen minutes, twenty-eight seconds
and the sky has begun to flicker
streaks of gold and blue
race across the horizon
meeting above our heads
with the fury of abandon.
Six hours, three minutes, two seconds
and we return to the city
to see the preachers and reverends
being pulled down
and burned in the street.
Four hours, sixteen minutes, thirty-five seconds
and we huddle in an alley-way
waiting for the mob to pass
wanting now to live.
We lie down in your favorite fountain
with one hour to go
and imagine oblivion.
I tell you not to worry,
it’s just like being born.
We take a breath.
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