Waiting on the Roof

There are only six minutes left
on the clock before it explodes.

Nothing is ever complete,
only abandoned at a certain time,
perhaps we may never find satisfaction
in that pre-packaged, saran-wrapped
blue light discount aisle.

Of course we can talk of cupcakes,
or pickled vegetables, but i'd rather
roll around by the river
in the dirt, and taste the blood
that prickles up on my skin.
I want to know how
the earth tastes me, too.

One more minute.

It's not that we were ever necessary
for each other's survival, it was simply
a matter of convenience.
The garbage will pile up even when
there is a garbage truck to haul it out
every morning.
5 am.
You need rest.
Your thoughts are fried from the computer
screen. You've forgotten what you
were originally made out of.
Blood and dirt. Like me.

About eight more seconds left.