Night,
Our night.
We were supposed to win.
We were supposed to come as a tide,
Washing over all the nonbelievers,
                                           Our molecules mixed into a cauldron with
                          anyone else who has ever fathomed
        making a difference in an indifferent world.
We were supposed to win.
We were meshed together in a way
where I bought into this.
I bought a drug for this crippling disease.
                                                 Yet, I’ve known this to be cureless.
Cureless, as my affections for you.
         Cureless, as the afflicted home we live in.
****** by society, we sat in our lonely, empty space.
I couldn’t speak a sound; you were the one who had enough air to speak.
        We were supposed to win.
         Now, not so much.
            Now, I don’t remember it meaning as much to me as I had once thought.
                  The oxygen may have been from extracted my body, but, by god,
Losing has soul.