THE FIRST THING to do is sort it out, you said. But I never listened to you, especially when the light was fading... That evening the winds flew through us as we sang out over the sleeping city. We sheltered from the cold later, in the old stone of the tower, and you traced my back with your fingers, drawing your ideas for the world onto me. I loved you then, but that was a long time ago.
***
The moon fell on a warm, quiet night. August. Those who were left when the skies cleared marvelled at the empty nights. Years of constant light and heat gave way to a winter we've never found out how to leave. Gradually the tides fell back and the dust settled. We crawled out from our holes, those of us who were left, and stood in the poisoned air, staring and lost.
I found you lying under a dead tree one night, staring up at the empty sky, and singing of the lost moonlight. We left the city together the next morning.
***
Travelling slowly, we climbed to the tower hill, and made camp and plans there. You spoke of stages; clearing, rebuilding and rediscovering. I realised that you were enjoying yourself, and it seemed inconceivable to me... gradually though, your passion for the new world infected me, and I shared your joy of survival, challenge and freedom. Down below in the city, wars raged as the struggling survivors fell upon each other. We were above it all on the hill, huddled in the warmth of our planning... I fell asleep huddled into your hearts, the double-rhythm soothing away my fears.
You left me soon after. I think you had tested me. Now I stand atop the tower hill, the rain is gone, the city's quiet for now. I begin to make my way back down to the world, my plans clutched tight, my hopes held closer still. I don't look back at the ruined tower. I move onwards.
