cinereal collarbones (napowrimo day 12)

we can only live for so long
on a scorched planet,
where rain is as rare
as the glimmer i used to
tease out of your eyes.
we don't think in years anymore;
the lakes write their farewells
in rushed tones, quicker each hour.

soon, nothing will remain
but the wastelands
and the gun-metal gray
crawling out of your bones.

they'll try to head
underground,
to outsmart the proximity
of the sun's energy.
they'll try the
south pole next,
ice walls and wind,
but the journey will be
impossible for people like us.

i watch as everything withers,
including your will to take
the next breath.

the fires spread to every sacred place,
the animals too silent to mourn,
heat licking at our calves.

we walk among the dead,
lush greenery an exiled lover.
there is no end
to the stifling air,
oxygen - a hunger in our
lungs we can't address.

i won't leave quietly though,
even if the surface of the Earth
(the surface of you),
becomes uninhabitable.