Guide to the Breakdown of Things That Never Knew life

The sky blinked twice before it quit. My hands smelled like metal and old water. The birds forgot their names. You were still gone. I chewed on light like it was stale bread. Nothing tasted like yesterday. The air pressed down like a funeral hat. I waited for thunder. Got receipts. And the sun — the poor bastard — dragged itself across the sky like it owed us nothing. (It didn’t.) We watched anyway. We always do. I once knew a man who buried mirrors in the yard so God wouldn’t find his face. I think he was right. No sirens. No flames. Just the long, stupid ending of something that never knew how to start. The sky didn’t cry. It flickered. Then turned off. I stayed. Because I wanted to see how boring the end could be