praying for apocalypse

death is a midnight lover
the one your ashamed to kiss on the mouth and the one that makes it feel so good,
the one you'd never know because you still wake up in the morning and you still have regrets. the raw feeling of failure and the sickness that makes your throat swell, even if you don't.

even if your eyes still see the sun rise and your feet still feel the warmth of summer pavement, the burn of asphalt and the drip of salt off the tip of your nose. that little mean river that flows up hill and you're fighting against it. when your knuckles are bruised and you're the only one bleeding.

when you're the only one sipping dust from the stars and praying for another billion years. another flare and another daughter. even though you'd rather stop breathing and you'd rather close your eyes to tomorrow.

when you'd rather pucker your lips and feel the hot breath of for-never.