Last Kiss Before the Sirens

Don’t make it soft.
Make it count. Make it cut.

Kiss me like the clock just coughed
and the second hand stuck in its own throat.
The street hums under sodium light;
glass dust on your sleeve shines like frost.

I don’t need comfort.
I need collision—your hands small earthquakes,
your mouth a prayer no church can file.

Air is choosing sides.
Windows hold their breath.
Somewhere a generator stutters through its last yes.

Say my name as if ink were running out,
the way a needle writes it into vinyl—
one groove, then fire.

We weren’t built for peace:
ash knows this, and the matches, and our lungs.
Still, see how the dark herds us together—
two motel ice buckets trying to be boats.

So kiss me like the end is near,
but nearer here—
the split lip, the iodine taste, the watch face fogging.

When the sky begins to unbutton,
when sirens give up on vowels,
let your mouth be the last lit thing I believe.

Hold it there.
Hold it until the light decides.
Image.