thank you for introducing me to this song; it's great!
You never did get a chance to ask the internet before it went out, and I still don't know the answer: did pollution make the sunsets prettier, or was that just an urban legend? Wildfire smoke is beautiful, in that awful way that beauty has: skies like hell, looking just as real as it feels, the end of the world, impossibly large and bearing down.
The end so close you can smell it, campfire, brimstone, ash.
Leaving the house hurts my lungs but, you're right, what are we waiting for, what are we guarding our lung capacity for, in this new world; it hurts my eyes, too, but I still watch you.
You're a silhouette in the last red of the day, but the shape of you's unmistakable, your head tipped up, watching the clouds burn; and when the sun drops below the haze that was the horizon, you look over and ask, "ready?" and for what, I don't know, and that's the question I forget to ask before the asking becomes impossible. I nod anyway, and you smile behind your mask. I don't know tomorrow (but the sky burns redder every day), but I do know this: I'll follow you into the dark.
The Dusty Air Red
You never did get a chance to ask the internet before it went out, and I still don't know the answer: did pollution make the sunsets prettier, or was that just an urban legend? Wildfire smoke is beautiful, in that awful way that beauty has: skies like hell, looking just as real as it feels, the end of the world, impossibly large and bearing down.
The end so close you can smell it, campfire, brimstone, ash.
Leaving the house hurts my lungs but, you're right, what are we waiting for, what are we guarding our lung capacity for, in this new world; it hurts my eyes, too, but I still watch you.
You're a silhouette in the last red of the day, but the shape of you's unmistakable, your head tipped up, watching the clouds burn; and when the sun drops below the haze that was the horizon, you look over and ask, "ready?" and for what, I don't know, and that's the question I forget to ask before the asking becomes impossible. I nod anyway, and you smile behind your mask. I don't know tomorrow (but the sky burns redder every day), but I do know this: I'll follow you into the dark.