On the night the apocalypse is supposed to come,
we pack sandwiches and head off to a park,
try to get the jellyfish to sting us since we’re supposed
to die anyway. It’s so cold the stars could freeze over
and crack in half; I want to pull your breath
from your mouth in a long string and keep it locked
away in a jar. See, this isn’t a “celebrating all the life
we’ve had together” kind of party. This is a
“celebrating the fact that we’re going to die” kind of party
since we’re both suicidal, maybe up for a little
reckless driving on our good days. Two years ago
we met at a Suicidals Anonymous meeting;
our first date was bungee jumping, then we moved
on to things like drunk driving and mountain climbing
without any safety tethers. The first time we kissed,
it was on the edge of your apartment building,
twenty stories up, so close we could feel the wind
turning us like kites. You tossed a blood orange
over the roof and the only thing keeping us from
following it was the taste of one another’s mouths.
Tonight, while everyone else is frantically packing
cans of baked beans and guns and blankets
in some kind of foolish hope that they can beat
this apocalypse, whether it be fire or ice,
we sit on the sand dunes out on the beach,
turn our faces to the tide.
Come on, we say.
Come get us.