Every time I slept with you disaster happened. Nature groaned with me and the wind plucked at the gnarled bones of tall trees, scattering their skeletons in cemeteries: like airborne petals. He loves me, he loves me not. Another time, the sun sank vermilion and life-loathing into an oblique eclipse. But this time, tall buildings scrabbled for the bloodied earth like dominoes, shredding lives lived on post-it notes. They were destroyed just as you constructed me. Bringing me, with your slow hands, to a sudden electricity as the lights went out.

We were turned on; the television off. How the blue-green glare must have despaired at missing the plummeting oblivion of the super-hero desperate, an incident unmatched in gossip by our contours melting into a seamless mess on the couch.
 
I woke to the rumble of coffee churning and dripping, and muted tongues too tired from kissing but aching for just one more. And I didn’t know that this morning would change the world, and I basked in that unknowing.