Even when the sun got you I still loved you. I might have loved you more. Because you were saved from the lifestyle we’d been cursed with when our forefathers toyed with science, wrangled and got rough with things like molecules and atoms and burned each other to space and through time to infinity. At that time they took technology very seriously as the epitome of human achievement, which turned out to be a robotic dependency. Still I wonder why people would gravitate so strongly to something that produced no emotion.
When our planet, green and lush still, even with early twenty-something century fears of climate change, with towers of concrete and steel and glass, finally crushed into fine dust, they still did not understand the huge finality, the encompassing of their actions of hostility and pride and honor. Things were alternately created and deleted in speeds that were never meant for humans to achieve– moving at sound and light—and it never occurred that anything except death could be permanent.
I met you in the dark. It was always dark. Half the sun died and what remained pulsed weakly from the moon’s surface. Our eyes had died when the morning sun died. It didn’t keep me from reaching out to you. I never knew what the ancient words meant. “Warm” meant nothing except the opposite of normal. “Light” was abstract, described as being carefree.
I brushed my lips on yours and felt metaphorical sunshine. You burned hot into me.
We could never fully understand what it was like before the sun died but when you left this world I thought for one second I saw a flash.