Love in the Time of Zomlera
Do you remember the day the world ended?
I remember you had on the the most adorable sundress. Green. A lighter, more vibrant hue than the green in the clouds we spent the morning running from.
I remember when I looked back over my shoulder to see you had stumbled. That the clouds would be upon you in a matter of moments. How I held my breathe at your display of grace and finesse when regaining your footing. Each step so delicately placed to avoid the countless crushed corpses of the youth and elderly alike. Truly it must have been how Stravinsky originally imagined L’Oiseau de Feu.
I remember your eyes. How beside trash can bonfires they seemed to have an otherworldly, almost ethereal glow to them. A creature of heaven sent down to watch over us. An angel with little driblets of baked bean sauce rolling down her porcelain cheeks.
Do you remember the screams from that first night?
Oh how those creatures howled.
I remember your shuddering body wrapped against mine, as you whispered, quieter than a mouse, that you couldn’t tell what was worse: the howls or the chewing.
But truth be told my love, I couldn’t imagine a sweeter sound to fall into blissful sleep beside you. It was like our own private symphony; the deep bass of the grunts layered masterfully over shrill tenor screams. A lost Chopin classic.
I know how wistfully we speak of the days of electricity. Of the days of warm running water and stores packed with so much food, we ended up throwing most of it away. The days when a quarrel with a neighbor would end in a few weeks of passive-aggressiveness, rather than an ice pick through the eye.
Oh, you know I miss those days as much as anyone.
Yet, my dear, I doubt I ever loved you more than on the day the world ended.