DON’T MAKE ME CRY

If we hide under the walkway, under the conveyor belt, we’ll be out of the way of the fires. They can’t get us under there. We’ll be safe. 

People have set traps up here to ensnare the likes of you and me. Booby traps: Lust. Hunger. Bright colors. Exquisite, unearthly beauty. Sugar. Fat. Things humans are hardwired to go for. 

Two million acres burning and you want to change the subject. Let’s go down. Let’s get out of here.

I used to be in love with someone who turned out rotten.
I can picture the two of you naked, shopping for fireworks on the border thinking: boom.
Boom. Boom.
You move your heads the same way. 
You begin to resemble your environment. Your environment begins to resemble you. 
I hear a phone ringing.
The murmur of overheated bodies.
At least four distinct mother tongues.
The woodwind song of a train coming then going.
The jangling of a small dog’s metal collar.
I’m going to use this time to think about the bodies we’re in: I sit next to you. We can feel each other’s bodies without moving, see them without looking.
It’s a miracle to have these bodies. Inside my body my imagination turns dark green and hardens like a gel setting in my veins.
I think you are the only hope in this whole place. When the fire comes, you’ll whisper: I told you so.

The fire’s already here. 

But: water still comes out of the faucet. School’s still in session. Parking rules are in effect. The money’s still wrong. 

Too late. It’s too late. 

Don’t make me cry.

Too late, too late, too late.