Tell me about the time I waited for hours for the end of the world because you said so & tell me about the weather.
How the clouds heaved & heaved. Quietly at first, then with a sudden viciousness. Tell me about how they gasped into themselves. How there was this awful, keening sound. As if you’d placed a straw at their centres and sucked.
Tell me about how we watched and watched until it was too late. Until the centre popped and there was nothing but the loss of the thing.
Tell me about the weather again.
How we tried to weather through and failed.
Tell me about how we ran until we forgot we were running.
Tell me, again, how it was too late.
How everything catches up to you in the end.
Lies, dreams, a death-wish. Tell me what we forgot. Our names. The colours. The days of the week. Everything we’d lost and loved.
Tell me nothing mattered & tell me about how the trees died last.
How we were alive enough to watch them. How that was more terrible than anything else.
The way they shivered first. Just this slight shudder that shook down their spines. Then the trembling, the violent trembling. How they crimped into themselves like crushed petals and oozed their lives out.
How minutes afterwards, when we thought they were dead, they trembled again, just once. So subtle we almost convinced ourselves it didn’t happen. Then nothing. Just a last dead leaf dancing in the dead breeze.
Tell me there was nothing afterwards. Just the loss of things and two hands. No one left to make sense of this.
Photo by NOAA on Unsplash
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