From a Sobeys Parking Lot at the End of the World

Another morning-night-morning shift…

the familiar toss up of sunrises:

something between poppy-coloured clouds and

Bellini-soaked skies...

a strawberry sun bleeding out over our heads in the asphalt desert

of an Adelaide Street in the ghost town we were run out of that one solar eclipse spring.

At the back of the Sobeys parking lot

where we pissed against the steel-slat building at 3am

and hoped the security cameras wouldn’t see...

Where we held hands over the E-brake

and pretended doing acid on rollercoasters was normal.

We would spend morning-night-mornings

laughing in the face of time.

You gifted me promises of the apocalypse

scratched along the inner pulp of my cheek,

written with the sharp knife of your tongue.

Momento mori, little bunny...

Remember that you have to die.

Except the apocalypse never came

even when you tried to teach it how to knock on our door, even

when you tried to become it yourself.

We peeled out of the parking lot,

a peach strung up against the struggling blue turned in the rearview mirror,

the kind of blue that hides in the scrappy indigo of wee hours and sleepless nights;

like bruise-tired eyelids or

moonstone under mid-day sun.