The world almost ended, or so they say. We all get a little paranoid sometimes, afraid of being washed away. When the rain stopped, though, I caught myself sighing at the sky. Another empty cloud day.
We could build boats together, you know. We could make our water world a paradise. Any apocalypse just takes a little planning, really. I close my eyes and dream of wet planks beneath my feet, ropes in my hands, the changing of the wind. I wake up and the sun starts shining.
He keeps his bow under the bed as a joke, reuseable ammo, he says, is best for when the zombies rise. Quiet, long-range, deadly in the right hands. I think about moving to the country, high in the mountains somewhere, or in the trees like the monkeys we once were. We could evolve to use our feet like hands again. Swinging through the trees; almost flight.
There’s a lot to say about the end of the world. How I don’t know if I’d set out to say goodbye to you, how it feels wrong somehow all these miles between us. It’d be easier, maybe, if I saw you sometimes on the street and ignored you. Like I do most people I used to know. Or if the world was crumbling, no guesswork.
There’s less to say about the day-to-day. They’re all throwaway, the kind you end prematurely just to move forward half a step.
It’s a lull. The valley. A cheek resting hand. A sigh.
We talk about the end of the world and make our plans to fight it. We go to sleep and wake up in dreams.
All the while living like zombies.