She looks up at the cold blue sky with one star, a planet maybe. She thinks, this sky is so huge it can lift you off your feet, sail off into it, oh God if only. This is the predawn sky that can’t be contained in the square of a broken window in a garage door, it seeps into everything, covers you in gloaming blue. This blue inkwashes your pale hands indigo, it gets in your hair, phosphorescent; it eats you it owns you it gets inside you where all the slitherling things live, where bright things and dark things are and turns them all watercolor blue. You breathe it in and out and taste your whole world and you say okay. Lungs still breathe. Things are okay.
This is the incandescent jejune bluenight that kisses you and is only flit-fleeting. This is the transitory sky that makes all the spindly building remnants go black black, black citadel spires, almost like the old skylines used to look; and in the cracks between the buildings along the horizon, across sleek garage doors, the white where the sun is going to come back soon.
She used to look forward to that part, used to like the odious crass pinks and oranges and even the reds, and the sunlight that smelts your eyelids to your cheeks.
Now she looks up and counts, ten minutes, maybe. Ten minutes until twilight welken dies, until that last shimmerwink planet star burns and turns its way out, leaves for the rest of the universe, out in the nebula cloud strings and Hubble-bright fairy lights of space, oh little planet star. What you do to me.
And when she says goodnight to the planet star, when the last of the blue unpaints itself from her skin, she says good morning to the undead. They have to move south, but that means leaving their safe-house at dawn. Goodnight, blue. Good morning, zombie fuckers.
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