There is dust on the door hinge. There is a spider by the basin, a cold touch to each breath. Darkened hallways bleed into darkened streets, ill lit and lonely from the curb to the crosswalk needing paint. The phone is there, resolute in that profound stillness felt only to those living in the wrong world. The whole bluff unravels, awaiting only that last report.
You feel it all as it catches up, the fleeting years and the crawling hours. The plodding of that numbed heart, the certainty of that clumsy flesh. Each embrace a kind farewell, your eyes full of feigned regret. Flecks of ash, coils of smoke. The last winter, gathered all about, children circled for a story. Buzzards circling for a feast.
It isn't only that all the words ran down. It isn't only that the distances proved too far, that all the stars were only painted on. There was a choice, a road stolen while everything slept. There was a way that wasn't built so entirely of lies. The dead take their portion as they dutifully palaver, flies so thick they look like ink. Nothing written will be read again, here at the end of the world