the end started when you kvetched your way back to bed, back to this panic room. the night began, but the moon disappeared when you started digging crescents unto my back. outside the wind howled when you breathed out bullets, so i wanted to weigh our chances of escape–i counted the times that came, and ways i could pick you up and pick you out. my hands trembling over your mouth like a mask. us in motion, just in placation, seeing stars, and watching each one fall parallel to the space between our bodies; quaking, our fault lines forcing the crush, the extinction. the whole planet flattened and you are still on me. i buried sighs into your neck, and i blamed decay for the marks under your jaw, on the spot right below your ear, and on the corner. the nook i would tuck myself into for shelter. i blamed inertia for the seven, eight rounds and revolutions for every hour up to the eleventh; i blamed combustion for the right shade of red under the skin of your lower lip, your cheeks, under stomach under matches, under the waxy pads of my fingers. if i could trace my steps back three hundred days and fifty eight seconds i’d still end up in the same spot on the small of your back, and i’d call it gravitation. the pull of the universe towards the center. you lying down, supine, restless. you on all fours, you on crumpled sheets, arms bent and hands behind your head as in victory, as in surrender. seven years could pass and the records would play the same, broken cry for help. our SOS on the sand, the one you drew on the back of my hand. the sun could pass and we’d still be here. bombs of light billowing to cloud nine. i’m not looking to be rescued anyway.
aaaaaaand this shit will remain shitty and unfinished. i tried, guys. i really tried. holy shit what is this even.