Before the world ends

The evening was structured like this after you left: picked up a bottle of wine and uncorked.
Drank.
Made up a story about the mice that are scratching along the floorboards.
Talked for a while with someone I used to know about the weather in Portland.
Drank.
Wrote a brief poem about a raven that I'd seen standing on a thin strip of telephone wire
Drank.
Contemplated the chances that an asteroid would one day strike the earth, ending it all.
Drank.
If it was my last night, and I had to go. I think I'd have supper early, and open all the blinds to gather in the last of the light.
Drank.
I'd want to catch the sunset--purple behind the dark shapes of trees.
Drank
In the evening, we'd play cards, and I'd cheat savagely because I love to win. I love to win at things like cards more than other people love their dogs. I get flushed in the cheeks, and I hide cards up my sleeve.
Drank.
Drank
After cards, I'd proffer sex, which is a way to pass time.
Drink.
In the darkness, I'd start to wish for light, and we'd see a small white blur, slipping across the horizon, eliding our dreams.
Drink.
Would we, who have spent our lives curled in front of screens step outside for these final moments? Or would we secretly wish that we could sit inside, watching it all unfold from a distance.
Drink.
This is the kind of time when you'll think about all of the people you loved, the cities you've visited, and you'll start to wonder why you spent so much of your life worrying about anything else.
Drink.
For a flicker, as it grows, monolithic and silver on the horizon, we'll wonder if this too shall pass.
Drink.
If we had to do it all over again, I'd spend the evening reading Ecclesiastes with you. Later, we'd stand out on the patches of snow, loving the people we've suddenly become.