Grey curl of smoke leaves my mouth,
Ashes scrape my throat.
I won´t play it wrong-
Trying to appear strong.

There´s no fire-
Just  the path to end this.
Gladly, I´d be your player,
Between us, fire burns.

Smoke would hiss.
It started-
With lit cigarette.

☐ Learn to play an instrument
☑ See the pyramids
☐ See the northern lights
☑ Have my first kiss
☑ Graduate High School
☐ Ride in a hot air balloon
☑ Fall in love
☑ Nap together
☑ Cook dinner together
☑ Try shrooms
☐ Make him breakfast in bed
☑ Build a snowman
☐ Couples dancing lessons
☑ Go camping together
☐ Make love in a blanket fort
☐ Go backpacking together
☑ Celebrate an Anniversary
☐ Kiss in the rain
☑ Watch a meteor shower together
☐ Take a spontaneous road trip together
☒ Make it work
☐ Have a new year’s kiss
☐ Earn his forgiveness
☐ Start a garden
☐ Raise a dog
☐ Raise a cat
☐ Share a house
☐ Make a home
☐ Plant a tree
☐ Get married
☐ Build a bookshelf by hand
☐ Slow dance in the kitchen
☐ Write a book
☐ Be a family
☑ Choose him again
☑ and again
☐ Be chosen back

You touched me,
and I remembered how stars bleed
before they die.

Maybe if I had looked for you,
Thought this through,
You´d have come by,
I´d have caught your eye,
You´d come around-
Finally we´d be bound:
A heap of cold bones,
You´d find headstones,
My flesh so long rotten,
Just like always, forgotten.

When you’d hunt me down,
Felt like I was given a crown,
My heart grew still and deeper,
Longing for you as its keeper.

You’d stand on the brink,
Our breaths in the sync,
Feeling your nearness,
Ditching the harness,
Standing there bare,
Sinking to your stare.

If you’d hunt me down...
I’d wear it like a crown.

Sometimes the past slips away -
a dream that never was.
But the wanting stays,
like a ghost in the hallway.
We carry it,
each step a little lighter.

In the bruise of neon twilight,
do you hear the murmurs of fallen titans?
Our weary hands hold forgotten keys
to rusted kingdoms of hope and decay.

We reforge legends in alleyway sermons,
where ancient echoes meet the hiss of rain -
fables of sunken gods and exiled warriors,
whispered between shattered, heartfelt beats.

Have you tasted the bitter lips of revolt,
the raw nectar of midnight confessions?
In these rain-soaked streets, truth is a bruised bloom,
unfurling amid broken glass and smudged lore.

Fathers rasp secrets from battered concrete,
while mothers dissolve in industrial shadows

our pulse, a ragged hymn echoing
through streets carved by forgotten revelries.

We huddle beneath a fractured moon,
where graffiti speaks the language of rebellion,
and every scar in the city is a stanza
in our relentless, aching poem of survival.

Grant us a stolen hour
to celebrate wild, desperate art
to clutch the tender flames of our revolt,
even as we wade through urban ashes
in defiant, hopeless grace.