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When it’s my very last day,

I will come back to your house,

the one that sits close to the road.

I will clear the pine needles that have fallen on the front step, 

and open the back door to let the small bugs in.

I will pull my legs up to my chest in a rusted garden chair, 

and hum softly to myself.

The yellow slide was left leaning on the oak tree in the back, 

I like to believe,
it was just for us.

I am the only person left on this earth, 

and instead of saving humanity, 

I have come to your house.

Just so I can feel once more, what it means to be small.