Empty end to nothing

We’ve come to expect the world to end every single morning. So when the clouds come down we see nuclear marrow ash and breathe it in our lungs. At an hour not normally seen, the city is draped in pale shadows.

Figures mist into eye, become full as they walk closer. Reach out and lose an arm, walk through empty intersections ripe with hidden traffic. Wave to a black silhouette you assume is your friend, waver till you see him hand you a coffee.

Wait at the bus stop seven minutes, sigh when the fog lifts.