Under the stars, on the hood of my car, we watch
the heavens collapse upon themselves tonight.
Embrace in the erasure of our celestial blotch.
With your head on my shoulder, it is alright.
For when the sky drops down on our heads
amidst this crashing downpour of crimson rain,
I will happily accept that we already made our beds,
and your contagious smile hides your pain.
In the wake of the rapture we were left on our own,
but at least I lived as Shakespeare rather than Petrarch.
With lack of evidence we could not have known,
but at least we saved each other, and we made our mark.
God may be dead in the eyes of Nietzsche.
He let this world think that everything is peachy.
I FICTION 