Orange Slices for the Sun 

They tell us the sun will scorch us and we’ll spray across the atmosphere like citrus mist on mornings.

Would you love me at the end of our lives even if the end of our lives start today? That’s a stupid fucking question because of course you will. At the end of our lives there’s nothing left to lose but each other. But I ask you anyway as you kiss your lips to my lipstick stain on my cigarette stick. You know these things can kill you right? And we laugh hysterically because it’s today,

and it’s the end of our lives. You hold up your pretty polished fingers and mock yourself like a puppet with a hand up its ass. Shoes, don't forget your shoes, you say. I bend over to strap my heels into place and reach out to give our cigarette one last kiss goodnight.

Outside, we skip along collapsing concrete, our pretty polished fingers intertwined. Asteroids rain above our heads like fat drops falling into dew.

Dip me baby and do the twist — it’s the end of our lives.

And we are orange slices for the sun.