If the world ends tomorrow
I will never have the chance to slide my hand
down your beautiful back.
I will never swim through your veins
like you’re an endless river
of drugs and literature.
I will die wearing white,
a virgin in the spotlight of a burning sky.
Die screaming your name
while the Mayan’s cry out from their unholy graves,
“we told you, we told you, we told you.”
And as the grass turns to bones and to ash
I will waste my last wish
hoping that you die knowing this:
You leave bits of your soul everywhere that you go.
Chances are, the world will not end tomorrow
and even if we all survive
I will probably die
without ever getting close