Wednesday

It was glorious really. The accident

Had smashed us into shimmering metallic paint,

Metal, bones, And blood. Flames

Erupted from under the hood—and licked

Away the liquid remains of

Child, Sinner, and Saint. The

Rapture was stunning—

It was our apocalypse.

Sometimes that little, unimportant thing

Is what causes us to bleed the most. Like that

Tiny thing of post-it notes we used

To scribble notes back and forth to one another

When we were too afraid to speak.

We had found ourselves in a miniature

Version of heaven. Riots had torn

The streets apart so that they were

Stained the same color as rose petals

Frozen over. The blood of the fallen

Giving life to a new enemy.

I remember the look on your face,

Half hidden by streaks

Of mud, and the last word you screamed

As I reached for the closest weapon.