(for Joe Bolton, and the rest of us watching it burn)
⸻
Say this life,
and let it be enough,
for once.
Say:
I watched the sky turn brass and thought it beautiful.
I kissed someone not because I believed in tomorrow
but because I didn’t.
Say:
We knew the oceans were dying.
We still went swimming.
We knew the war was coming.
We still laid out bread,
and touched each other lightly,
as if the body were not already archive.
Say:
We remembered songs we hadn’t heard in years.
Not for comfort —
but for their silence between the notes.
The way forgetting sounds
right before it happens.
Say:
We woke each day unsure what for
and went on living anyway —
the way ruins hold rainwater
without asking why.
Say:
We were careful not to make sense.
We let the story break,
so the light could get in.
Say:
We saw ourselves, luminous and still,
half in love with what would be lost.
Held there —
like the pause before a falling star
for no one.
And still.
Say this life.
Let it be enough.