You’re going to wake up before your alarm most mornings,
and sit in the quiet
looking at the mess of dark hair beside you
feeling the same way every World War II pet owner did
standing in line for culling.

Cling to the skin whose name you know best,
breathing intertwined in the same area code for a moment.
Heavy and spare
like an ear bound to the melody of a song
you never got a chance to share.

There was never enough time
to learn
what to feel
seeing all those records
dusted down and illuminated.
Each in their own space
amongst the butterflies and jazz.

You know you’re weary. Nothing more.
Maybe that’s why you still shave against the grain
despite long ago having learned better,
and wonder if anyone else in the coffee line
can tell you’re suffering an unstoppable
irreversible fear.

Everything is always an amalgamation
unbound by chronological order.
The moments of light so real your brain starts seeing
raw symbolism in every breath.
Those are the parts worth keeping.
The things that never quite make it to past tense.

But right now your ears sound like the ocean,
roaring with blood. There’s an apocalypse outside
and you’re the first to hear it.
But you’re not dead yet,
because there’s no afterlife where she’d be here
or you there.

Stay awake.
Feel the air rushing out of the world,
peeling back time itself
to it’s barest final slice of silence.

Your parachute never opened.
You’re hanging like ribbons
in the trees.
Staring at her face
still framed by starshine,
and high desert green.