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 to you.