i am so scared of you leaving.

on that day there will be no hot air balloons bobbing against the sky; momentary children of the clouds. there will be no rain nor sun- only the thick, gray gloom. the children won’t play during recess games with cooties or swings. pens won’t feel like pens. they’re already starting not to as i skid my hands feverishly across paper. they feel like blobs of my discontent, slowly inking without my consent and i’m scared. that day, my mother will yell more than usual about dings in the floorboards or my failure to turn the lights off before sleep. the bugs will stay underground, or maybe there will be a drought so they’ll just die anyways. white will turn red- black no longer opaque. asteroids will scream in the sky, crashing into all they can and on that day all spaceships will implode. earth may even lose a letter. textbooks will change to all new material, babies will curse and old men will lose all of their back problems.

earth will explode.

everyone will die,

as we slowly slide our hands to our sides. fingers unlacing, fingers unlocking. a key in my hand. and you’d think that two magnets could not leave each other but we are, we will and already did. like you said, all we have is the present, so make the best of it. but what if without you, we lost all time? that day, reality and fiction will collide and life and death will be the same. we will float like one hologram, one small picture in a blankness.

when you leave, i will forget this part of us. i will forget this part of me.

(i am so scared of you leaving)