Trotsky

As the snow began to fall we moved the boxes that you were taping shut so that we could make it from the bed to the kitchen. It had passed more quickly than I could've imagined it might have, and I could still taste all the words I'd failed to say. Whether they held truth or not would stay buried next to my childhood secrets in the shadows of my consciousness, because it looked like you might not stick around to find them out after all.
I had never seen you write so well, nor graph the stars like a cartographer, all heavy on the nighttime and my sins. It must have been upsetting that you never saw the sky with her, but I have set your telescope up right next to my bed so you can hold me while you show me the whole universe.
There was a stain on the new sofa that you flipped over to hide from the landlady who would see it in a couple months and curse you under her breath. There were cigarette butts under everything I moved, wedged into cushions and the nooks and crannies that I thought I'd stuffed up with my secrets when the draft had begun through the walls.
You looked more lovely than the kaleidoscope you bought me after we road tripped to Moscow for the fun of being misunderstood in the least understanding of lands. The rain was thicker there, and it bailed across our windshield like a steady stream of imperial socialism.
"What would Trotsky think?" You muttered, debating how much longer your lungs would last smoking with the windows all rolled up.
When the crash hit the wall and the blood boiled down until it couldn't have been anything human, you stopped smiling.
We are moving boxes like we're out of time, because you're obsessed with your immortality almost as much as I'm obsessed with my death.
And the snow had started falling when I cracked the champagne open with my teeth to propose a toast;
"to you, my love, on the last night of forever."
"What would Trotsky think?" You muttered to yourself as you chugged the champagne til you sparkled and made love to me for the first time in a long, long time.