Not if We were the Last Two People on the Planet

We’re the last two people on the planet,
and still you refuse to see,
after devastation and fighting
every post-apocalyptic problem
my tired mind can imagine.
You still cannot see.
Living so much in your head,
you don’t perceive
neither the beauty nor the destruction
bringing principalities to their knees.
And here I am, taking every bullet
so you can stay so safe
from the savage world around you.
How do you fail to see that I am bleeding
from the wounds meant for you, not me?
Blindness always was your strongest asset.

Now, the real-life nightmares have begun to recede,
and I hope that this simpler world
will be easier for you to take in,
to process, to participate in.
But you are always half a step
away from humanity,
no matter how few humans remain,
and you find a way to complicate
just because God gifted you a brain.
As you drone on again
about our duties of repopulating
this utterly fallen planet,
I take my final lament
over the emptying of the planet
and the extinction of the homo sapiens.
For until you love, you cannot create,
and after all my attempts to show you how,
you have never loved me.

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