—When grief turned chemical—
(?) warning: may contain a small amount of unsettling details, upsetting for sensitive readers.
They still fall behind my eyelids when I try to sleep. Those brilliant bursts of light unnatural and searing, bleeding colour into a night sky that was never supposed to burn.
Phosphoric fireworks, they called them. Like it was a celebration. Like war could be beautiful if you gave it the right name.
I the first one. We were on the rooftop, you and I, lying shoulder to shoulder on the cool concrete, pretending the world wasn't collapsing beneath us. You pointed up and said, "Make a wish."
I laughed. Foolishly. Loudly. I thought it was a comet. I thought wishes still had a place there.
But it wasn't stardust. It was phosphorus. White-hot, falling slow like snow with teeth, devouring rooftops, kissing our cheeks with acid.
You didn't scream, that's the part that still breaks me. You just looked at me, eyes wide, like you were sorry. Like I was the one in pain. You reached your hand, the skin already started to slough off. Yet you still tried to comfort me. Even when I rushed under the cover, looking back at you. Too late. Why did you stay, haven't I grabbed your hand? I thought you were running with me, but only a piece of you stayed with me.
Afterwards, the sky was too quiet. Cities don't know how to mourn properly. They don't sob. They just hum with the broken electricity of what used to be.
I carried what was left of you in a rusted tin can. Just particles. Just memory. Just that damned acidic smell that still clings to the inside of my nose, cleaved to the back of my throat like grief turned chemical.
Some nights I go back to that rooftop in my mind. Alone, barefoot, stupid. In my nightmares. I lie down and stare at the stars that refuse to fall anymore. They refuse to come with me even if I try to reach for them, looking at me. From above. Just like you. And I think,
this is what love becomes in the end, isn't it? A bright thing that burns too fast. A hand you can't hold. A firework that doesn't ask for permission before it tears the sky in half.
And still, I wish. Every time. For you to be my place to believe in wonders, again. The same wish, the same rooftop.
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