Sleepwalking

The world is ending and my house is falling apart

and I'm standing six feet from the people that I love.

And all I can think about is the way the meteor shower

got me all choked up last Wednesday

and how the sunset looks from the top of the parking structure

and how some of the best days of my life

haven't even happened yet.

The world is ending and I want to call my

ex-best friend and leave her a voicemail

and tell her that it all meant something to me too.

Sometimes I think I am afraid of moving on.

The world is ending so we float down a creek

and sit around a bonfire

and drink until the sky is spinning.

My skin is flushed from the sun

or the cider or being in love —

and at 11:11 I wish that everything would stay

exactly the same.

The world is ending so I tell him how I feel.

I could never love anyone the way I love him:

so passionately, so hopelessly, so irrationally.

I try to stay away from him, but he's magnetic

and I find myself in his arms every few weeks.

I want to stay this time.

The world is ending so I sit on my porch

during a summer thunderstorm

and wonder where in the world

all the time went.

I still feel like a child,

biking around the neighborhood

getting dirt on my face

feeling so giddy I could explode.

The world is ending

and I'm learning to make friends with

the space between where I am

and where I ought to be.

Everyone talks like the world is ending

but for me, it feels like it's just waking up.