when the world ends,

we will all be strange and young.

love, stored up like last year's fireworks,

will then exist only

in a cool, dry, cement environment.

clinical, sterile, precise,

i will tell you words so that you will hear them;

i will touch you so that you will feel me.

when the world ends

there will be sound, there will be smell,

and we will all taste the fury

of fire that spreads on blistering winds.

i will let you believe that i need you back;

i will engage you in codependence.

when the world ends

you will clutch to me, scared simple,

and i will be climbing clifftops,

seeking the thunderhead on the heath:

i will be catapulting off lightning strikes,

without so much as a hem

to cling to.