Running for cover as the stars came crashing down,
we sheltered beneath the tree as the universe crumbled.

Eternal love, we hoped,
would survive the ultimate destruction.

Past tense, the written crucible of fear,
where the outcome is not apparent.
Is it indicative of what has become?

Alas, I fear the end hasn’t quite happened yet.
Who knows, maybe the future finds a place
to allow us to nest in her bruised branches,
but we are not there yet, always in the present,
racing away from and racing towards the conditional perfect.