Everyday on T.V. they tell us
that the world is at its end,
and I think that scared us
for a little bit, but lately
it’s all that anyone
can look forward to.
The occasional car crashes
on the street outside our apartment
are like a compartment in my mind,
and I go there sometimes to remember
the sounds of destruction.
The ones with fire are somehow always
at the top of the pile and so I sift past them
looking for anything more.
She asked me for the time
when the microwave clock
went blank so she could make
it right again and we could know
when we would surely have to go.
The plan is to stay up all night
and that is something I will fight
for within every waking blink,
I can’t avoid. The wall is covered
up with paper butterflies.
She curses every times she dies
and blames it on the buttons
she is pressing. She starts undressing,
and I forget that I am sitting in a room,
and just assume she is the only thing
before me.
I turn twenty-four when the clock
wraps its fingers around 6:14
and she complains about the mattress
and her back. I tell her to grab hold
of me and I become her only crutch.
She is sleeping at the slightest touch
and her only parting words are,
“I am going.”
Teleporting Typewriter 