We stood in the observation lounge, wrapped in sunbeams. Afraid to let go, I gripped you like grim death. Your dark eyes wrote sonnets in my tears. And then you were gone. And I was gone. We were gone.
Justine, I know you can’t hear me, but no one
names their kid Justine anymore. It was a 70’s thing.
We’re both dead. I wish you’d quit pretending.
I understood more on that bridge in three seconds of concussive force than I did in my brief 25 years. How could I have known that the one day we thought we could have a leisurely lunch on top of the world was the day decades of U.S. interference in the Middle East would condense into two planes full of terrified people.
I know we’re gone, but I can’t stop watching kids.
those two kids in the window. They remind me of us.
Baby, you can’t watch anything, anymore.
There’s nothing to watch. We are ether.
We may be ether, but at least we are together.
When hell descended in shrieking metal tubes, your palms melted into my own. Our future life became echoes in your eyes, memories of what would have been. Text message love notes. College funds. A house on Long Island. Two rocking chairs under our UV canopy. I watched you playing with our grandchildren. Tousling your hair, now as gray as a winter sky, it felt like home. Then suddenly it was gone. Your tears evaporated as fire consumed our bodies. You whispered “I love you,” before we were incinerated, before we were swept away as falling stars in the ashes. In an instant, we were nothing more than the comet tail of memory which we now are.
At least we have that.