You Are Here

You are here, at the cusp of adulthood, the key is in your hand for 21C Autumn Lodge.
He is there, teetering on the edge of maturity in an adult body, a coffee in hand, a dog by his side and the world on his tongue.
For the love category of the Christmas Competition 2017


12. Until the apocalypse came


Until the apocalypse came

And the snow made drifts

And mountains

Where roads

Should have been.


The world is white,

The kind of white

Only an artist can achieve.

The sky meets the ground

Like old friends

And the world is frozen into a day

And a moment.


You get a call that day,

There’s no way you can get to the library,

No one can get to the library

And work can wait.

Maybe until after Christmas,

As the forecast predicts.


Your first thought is her,

On what she could be doing behind the door

Next to yours.


Your knock is more stable now,

Constructed out of the first friendly conversation

You had last night.


She answers

With a pencil in her hair,

A book in hand

And a gemstone in her eye

Signalling her amazement at the world.


“I guess it’s a snow day?”

You say with a quirk,

“You don’t want to spend it alone do you?”


You urge her to say no,

Even though the book means

She has a whole other universe

In her soul.


“I guess not.”

 and your heart grows

As though it is a building.


“I’ve always been a Pinterest nerd,”

You say as you wave your phone at her

With a billion recipes



She nods

And the day escapes

From tender hands.


Lukewarm coffee is drank.

Smiles and grunts

And the radio is played.


And aprons

And chocolate

Are adorned.


At one point Apollo arrives,

Dragging his black tail into new territory.

“You named your dog Apollo?” she remarks,

Noting how the creature looked more like the night

Rather than the sun.

You shrug because why not.


You make trees out of mixture,

She mixes icing for when the others come out of the oven.


She makes ginger bread,

Icing clothes

And faces

With hands wrapped in a warm smile.


You are covered with flour,

A snowman made out of bakers treats.


She dances to beats,

Hips swaying around the room

And the dog in the middle of it.

The tempo is in her blood

And the words are in her heart.


You can’t believe that this is a person.


You eat trees and men

Made out of chocolate

And lemon

And twenty four other combinations.

Pinterest has fuelled it all.


You and her

Sit shoulder to shoulder

Against the cupboards

And sip on sugary goodness,

Letting it pop against bewildered tongues.


You have hit rock bottom

Of melted candy

And hardened confidence.

She makes you more

Than you are

And the world revolves.


The snow still falls.

The apocalypse still sits.

Apollo gets the scraps of biscuits

And goodness.

But that is alright,

Your world hasn’t ended yet

And you doubt it ever would. 


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