Germ,
We’re huddled in the dark because the room’s painted black,
because OD shook us
and said a helicopter’s circling the roof
and any minute we’ll be cornered.
Any minute, men with guns
will find us.
But we can hide here,
our whispers coiling, watching yellow stars writhe
and scatter in our eyes.
The ceiling's wide hand flexes
above us, almost
infinite, suppressing our movement.
And I want an excuse
to touch your lips,
but the air’s equipped with little tongues.
The air has eaten our faces.
Germ, it’s repeating itself:
us in darkness, waiting for the monsters who never come.
Waiting to be gutted, our insides slurped.
I can tell the story until it is a whimper.
Until we don't exist.
In this story we kiss until the sun axes the walls.
In this story the earth screams and thrashes beneath us.
In this story we crash through the floor and are absorbed.
––But tell me how it ends.
Tell me it will end if we say it’s over.