i think the world is ending, or maybe that’s just me.
maybe it’s wishful thinking and not a prophecy.
maybe i am mixing up the dreaming and the waking,
or maybe i’m suffering from the pills that i’m not taking.
maybe culture’s damaging my impressionable mind,
or maybe that damage is of a very different kind.
maybe we’ll wake up one day at the end of the world,
or maybe one day we will sleep right through it.
maybe we’ll wake to screaming and to bright, bright light;
maybe we won’t feel even the first hit.
maybe meteors and asteroids will reign down so far above us,
until they are close, and i will tell you of their differences.
maybe you will cry and cry as we settle into dust,
and the sun loses its shimmer like old pennies.
maybe aliens will take us, pluck us all out one by one,
except you, dear: you’ll be clinging to my arms.
and they'll stir their brains, drive them insane, everyone around us,
but not us, love; we were insane from the start.
maybe the world is ending, love, but love me you still will,
and you’ll tell me so repeatedly whilst it ends.
maybe we’ll accept doom with grace; instead of crying uncle,
we’ll spend our last supper having dinner with our friends.
maybe the apocalypse will come at around six a.m.
and you’ll yawn and whisper “just five more minutes”;
i’ll rest my head on your shoulder and you’ll mess with my hair
and we’ll wait for death in easy, sleepy silence.
but more likely, the world will end after you and i are dead;
we won’t wake to it together because we’ll never share a bed.
we’ll grow distant, grow apart, and we’ll live our lives instead,
and we’ll forget the dreams of cities crashing far above our heads.