This is the End

The day the apples fell, shaken from low boughs to hurl against the brick wall. We were there in our vests, holding hands, or not, talking about how the world is probably going to end in the next seven years. How we'd break into a hospital and steal hydromorphone and inject each other while watching the sun set, maybe rise, on the Pacific. I shook like the apples but you touched my neck and said you'd be right there with me, and maybe we'd find each other again somewhere else.

I Don't Remember

How our palms were sweaty, salt water melding to join our skin. I don't remember screaming, I don't remember how it ended. There was something about light. I don't know where our dogs are, any kids we might have had. I can't remember faces, blurring into tan behind my eyelids. They always said we'd become a melting pot. Maybe the heat wasn't turned up enough for us to realise the importance of becoming each other.