I’ve got a cupboard with cans of food,
filtered water and pictures of you,
and I’m not coming out until this is all over.

And I’m looking through the glass
where the light bends at the cracks,
and I’m screaming at the top of my lungs
pretending the echoes belong to someone–
someone I used to know.

And we become
silhouettes when our bodies finally go.

I wanted to walk through the empty streets
and feel something constant under my feet,
but all the news reports recommended that I stay indoors…

Because the air outside will make
our cells divide at an alarming rate
until our shells simply cannot hold
all our insides in, and that’s when we’ll explode–
and it won’t be a pretty sight.

And we’ll become
silhouettes when our bodies finally go.
And we’ll become (and we’ll become)
silhouettes when our bodies finally go.

(apologies to The Postal Service)