we tell horror stories
holding one another’s hands,
sitting around fires in the open air
for our houses have been destroyed.
the air is smoky, but that’s not from us
bigger fires are burning elsewhere
fires that end stories,
fires that turn hands to dust.
we live now in white tents
beneath a blackening sky,
like a marshmallow held over flames for too long
when will we crack?
there is sewerage in the streets,
the water is dirty,
my mobile phone signal flickers,
my Instagram feed is not loading,
we are falling off the grid, gradually then
everything goes quiet. the quiet is what
I used to love most about camping.