We held hands on the last night on earth.
Our mouths filled with dust, we kissed in the fields and under
trees, screaming like dogs, bleeding dark into the leaves. It was
empty on the edge of town but we knew everyone floated along
the bottom of the river. So we walked through the waste where
the road curved into the sea and the shattered seasons lay, and
the bitter smell of burning was on you like a disease. In our
cancer of passion you said, "Death is a midnight runner."
The sky had come crashing down like the news of an intimate
suicide. We picked up the shards and formed them into shapes of
stars that wore like an antique wedding dress.The echoes of the
past broke the hearts of the unborn as the ferris wheel silently
slowed to a stop. The few insects skittered away in hopes of a
better pastime. I kissed you at the apex of the maelstrom and
asked if you would accompany in a quick fall, but you made me
realize that my ticket wasn't good for two. I rode alone.
You said, "The cinders are falling like snow." There is poetry in
despair, and we sang with unrivaled beauty, bitter elegies of
savagery and eloquence. Of blue and grey. Strange, we ran
down desparate streets and carved our names in the flesh of the
city. The sun has stagnated somewhere beyond the rim of the
horizon and the darkness is a mystery of curves and lines. Still,
we lay under the emptiness and drifted slowly outward, and
somewhere in the wilderness we found salvation scratched into
the earth like a message.
