apocalypse | 18+

8.

a visual of her ^

reality

i tried my best not to meet his eyes ever since he said that.

we had found the break room. we found the keycard to get back here too. we made pizza rolls. and abundance of them. and we found a cranking radio.

i kept cranking while sitting on the table barefoot, i painted my toes while he ate and played with a basketball. i wish it were normal.

"i'm an artist," he suddenly said. "i studied contemporary art in college."

"why?" i asked.

he was quiet for a while. "i like looking at beautiful things."

i rolled my eyes, "not all art is beautiful."

"it depends on how you perceive art," he challenged.

"so art about dead bodies can be beautiful?" i countered.

he laughs, "i'm a killer aren't i?"

i wanted to laugh, but i didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

he looked at me to argue again, but i couldn't. "oh, is the writer speechless?" he taunted.

"yes, i have no words, congratulations," i sighed. "and i'm not a writer. i never finished school," i mumbled, still cranking that damn radio. still looking for the answer.

"if you write, you're a writer. your writing is good from what i read," he complimented.

"you literally only read one sentence."

"so tell me more," he said seriously.

"you're drunk."

"no, i'm other things too," he smiled. he sat next to me on the table, laying his back down staring at the ceiling.

i sighed and stopped cranking, "you really want to know?"

he nodded eagerly, closing his eyes like a little kid. "this is my poetry, it's from my second philosophy called blossom. i also write those," i said wiping my sweaty hands on my pants.

"you just keep getting more beautiful, wow," he gasped. that one had to be a joke.

"shut the fuck up and listen to my
poetry," i nudged him in frustration.

"never thought i'd hear a girl say that to me," he laughed. "a beautiful one at that."

I ignored him.

i too closed my eyes, reading one of my  poems i knew from memory.

"a new flower blooms underneath the sunlight. a flower with exceptional beauty and meekness. the garden is complete. she diminished flower beds underneath her heat. little bloom fell for the brightest thing in the room.
while i and my, fell for the sweet somber moon. in all of our disposition, the soil still nourished both. what was made for one, became two. springtime had died, everyday felt like a summer afternoon. bloom. embrace love for the sun, and love for the moon," i was breathless.