Long drives
replay long
conversations
that sit with me
through longer
nights.
But your stay
was so
short,
sometimes I'm
not even sure
you were real.

Simple hello's
turned to casual conversation,
turned to me seated
in the passenger seat
of your car.
Talks on the phone
that lasted long after
the stars came out.
I really can't say I mind losing sleep,
as long as you're looking
for it with me.
You asked me what I thought
of you,
what I really thought.
Never in my life before then
had I been at a loss
for words.
I couldn't bear to ask you the same,
I'm afraid the answer
will be both too much
and not enough.

There have been theories
about the end of the world.
A giant fireball from the sky,
natural disasters,
a mutant virus.
But the truth is far worse
for I have seen it.
It's going to happen when
you awake one morning,
the warm, comforting body
that is usually next to you,
gone.
In their place, a note.
"I don't love you anymore.
I'm sorry"
It'll happen when
she takes her last breath,
the hand you've been desperately
clutching to
loosening in your grip.
When his mother calls you
at 3 a.m., crying,
and tells you that she found her baby,
your best friend,
lying on the red bathroom floor.
It'll take you a minute because
you know that that floor
is white.
This is how the world ends,
neither with a bang or a whisper.