what was the world at the end of it, were the days the same for all.

quiet here in the dark,
and the snow,
beneath me,
and tho my window closed, I can sense it
as something cold,
vast,
unforgiving, as it stretches white
over miles, highways,
fields.

my cat won't talk to me.
he slinks under table
to lick at his fur
keeping me in the corner of one amber eye.

outside,
the streetlamps are golden
the light cast through my window,
is golden, there's no sound but no sound,
a heavy absence, a feeling to be gained
and lost. and found and
lost again.

my cat stalks ghosts
into the bedroom
breathes heavy, groans,
whines, implores me
to sleep.
but I am not ready to give up yet.

in the morning all this,
and most of all, everything
else will be gone.