“…where are we going?”

To the moon, my love.
To the moon, and then some:
To the moon then to the sun,
To her siblings shining brighter,
To the edge we will never find
and to the voids we will cry to.

Once we reach the end,
our hands will still be entwined…
tied together at the knuckles,
glued shut with dust,
cracked and dried and wrinkled.

The first star you see,
you hold our hands up to the light,
and together we will watch the golden light hit our nails,
the red and pink of blood singing beneath.
You will laugh.
You will holler in joy.
And we will be alone, here.

I smile at you.
The rifle is loaded.
The pistol hangs loosely off my belt.
My mask is on, my goggles over my eyes,
the ash in the air choking your pale face,
the light of salvation shining through curtains of smog
casting the sky a murky orange, dark gray.

Your complexion is unmoved:
you are plastic and you are forever presenting
the ruins of a distant world
to no person that is already dead.

I smile at you.
The world is so quiet.
The life that matters is shattered at our feet.
My mind is set, my pupils focused on nothing,
the ash in the air choking your pale face,
the light of salvation a far star that we are racing towards.

Your pale, bony, hard hand is against the sun.
The sun’s dim light slips through the cracks of God’s shield.
It outlines your nails in a bright line.
Your skin is translucent and hard; no light passes through,
and I know if I cut you,
you would be hollow and you would not bleed.

I smile at you.
The rifle is on the ground.
The pistol is to my temple.
My mask is around my neck, my goggles on my forehead,
the ash hollers in my lashes and sticks to my tongue,
the light of salvation glints off the rim of the trigger.

The only star you will ever see,
you hold your hand up to the light,
and together we will watch the golden light hit your slender nails,
the plastic reflecting heaven to my eyes.
You are laughing.
You are hollering in joy.
And you are now alone, here.