Impact Theory

Make it matter.
Make it edged enough
that even the constellations
blink.

Kiss me like the clock
has coughed up its last gear,
like the air has chosen a flag
and left us
unclaimed.

I don’t want comfort.
I want wreckage.
Your hands, fault lines waking;
your mouth, a prayer
no altar accepts.

We were not built for peace—
but for flame,
for fallout,
for a heat that keeps burning
as the substations stutter out.

This isn’t for tidy endings.
This is to make the ending
wear our fingerprints.

Say my name
like ink forced under skin,
like you mean it enough
to scar the minute.
Say it again—brief,
and true.

The sky begins to loosen.
The light goes rust-lit.
When only the aftersound remains—

let me believe
in one last thing:

your mouth,
struck like a match,
held
to the dark.