The Green Ray

I can’t keep this up…

a jog turned to a drunken stumble,

a nervousness transferred into

this breathing building.

-

My smile starts to twist, contorts into a grimace,

and ceases to exist.

-

Your touch becomes so distant,

a hand from Mars, a hand of God, a hand from the sun.

-

The bike machine is covered in cobwebs, its gears stuck in place from the overwhelming cold.

-

The piles of books stack unbelievably high,

you’ve been busy in the library, you’ve been away

so long by now.

-

When the end came, that wicked flash of green light,

that green ray,

you dropped your plate, screaming, eyes wide

and I stepped on the fragments.

-

When my foot started to bleed, you didn’t notice, grabbing

some belongings and heading underneath.

-

There was no coat for me, and I was too slow to grab the photographs.

-

When we returned, they tried to capture and distract us

with nik-naks and tid-bits and bric-a-brac

and microwaveable tupperwares full of foods

that I know I couldn’t stomach.

-

The grainy interference served as the alarm clock from that moment on,

and when I woke up, the bed was empty again.

-

Nothing of it, I thought, until I saw your note

and then the sirens sounded.