Early on the last day, we drive to find the bottle bank.
The morning is thick with sunrise and unspoken language
and ladybirds clustered on windows.
Silence melts like chocolate on our tongues.
Your face conveys discovery;
chores will never look so beautiful again.
We say little, pendulums swinging back and forth.
Days ago we were squealing atop boulders —
somehow monotony is more fun.
I carry as many bottles as I can.
They quiver in my grip as I do in yours.
Glass calls back its brokenness,
shapes swishing through the dark like falling stars.
Destruction is unexpectedly romantic;
let’s take a sledgehammer to the sky.
We mock the strangeness of temporary traffic lights.
Standstill makes me dizzy.
In the forest, I pulled a ladybird from your hair
and wished that I could take its place.