Your Lips, My Lips, Apocalypse.

Let’s say the world was ending tomorrow.

Cities bombed, electricity cut,

strangers running in the streets,

names turning into statistics.

 

I wonder, in that moment,

when your whole life flashes before your eyes,

would I be there?

Would you see glimpses of me

in the cracks of the road,

hear my voice

between the deafening sirens,

would you remember me at all?

 

If the world were ending tomorrow,

would you push through chaos,

through burning billboards and broken houses,

through miles of gridlocked freeways,

just to get through me?

Because if the world were ending tomorrow,

I’d come for you. 

Barefoot, if I had to.

Through fire,

through flood,

through every fear.

For my world would only end

if there’s no you in it.

 

But maybe it already has ended.

Maybe we ran through every red light,

climbed every fire escape,

but the bridges burned without an exit.

The river pulled us under

before we could reach the shore.

 

Maybe the apocalypse 

is just another word

for the end of us.

For the way things just crumbled,

not in explosions or riots,

but in silence.

Not out on the streets,

but under the warm neon light

at the dining table.

 

Maybe this is us

standing in the wreckage

of the place we used to call home,

where I poured the gasoline

and you lit the match.

 

Smoke in my lungs,

dust in your hair.

 

Maybe this is me, standing

in the ruins of what we built

brick by brick,

the one I still visit,

the one you left behind.