christopher citro
waves frozen like wrinkles on dog skin A second or so for humans. That’s our delay. The world could cough out of existence and none of us would know for a second. We’d go on chopping kale as if it still existed. The flies catching on first, remaining mum. This is how it ends—us staring at the flies wondering what their problem is. Custard pie. Ginger snaps. Sweet tea. A bowl of ice cream. Your bright eyes. I’m listing what’s going away. The last time we spoke I said I love you twice. Once because I do. Again to see if you did too. Phones nowadays don’t click when we hang up but should. The silence after the after-silence deafening. The kitchen clock ticks like soldier feet on a bridge, the kind made from grating. It’s holding us up but we can see right through.
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