The Last Night Of The Earth

Don’t you understand? The answer is 2, not 3 or 1.

We held each other on the last night of the earth. The sky was collapsing in giant bricks of black and grey, roaring thunderously in our ears. Our mouths lined with ashes, we kissed amidst broken concrete and waste, bleeding our hearts onto shards of shattered glass. The city was empty; everyone we knew and did not know have abandoned their lives. So we ran though the cinders, the ghosts of all we were unable to shake off or forsake silently following us. There existed no roads, no exits, just fire and rubble on crumpled ground. You tugged at my hand and said, “We need a little more time.”

The world was enfolding on us. We climbed to the top of a lone scaffolding and watched the dust fall like snow. I kissed you at the pinnacle of the storm and pleaded with you to dare fall with me, but you made me see that this was a one-person ride. In despair, I went alone. The bitter air slashed at my skin as I cut through emptiness. There was nothing to grasp, saved for brittle paper that dissolved through my fingers. The flying sand stung my eyes. The moon has crumbled, its million little pieces spilling down on me. Staring up, I carved your image onto my soul – you standing there, with a shadow over you, your eyes as dark as ebony. My fingers reached out towards you longingly… and I disintegrated into the eclipse, lost.

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