Apocalypse in Yellow

When the sun pops, we watch hand-in-hand from the wold.

"So this is how it all ends," you say, as molten gold erupts through the blue.

I try, as I always do, to find some silver lining: "Perhaps it's how something better begins--who knows?"

Cosmic fire coruscates over your lambent cheeks. I think of the Turkish word yakamoz--the moment when moonlight hits the surface of open water. Sea sparkle.

You reply: "But what could be better than this, than now?"

I struggle to think, and when you point at the sky--gasping like a child on bonfire night as a meadow of yellow marigolds blooms in the firmament--I have no answer silently; I have no answer still.