Maybe the end of the universe
does not lie in an explosion
or a hole that breathes black,
maybe it is right here
where stone benches reside
and the raindrops taunt like pesky little children
waiting for you to see them,
loud enough to mimic the silence
loud enough to sound like sorrow.
Maybe this is the end of the universe—
cosmic loneliness.
The stars are in a bitter drink
and the sun lies anywhere but within you
and your moon—why do they say that? To the moon and back?—your moon is a rock in your stomach
and only the fingers of the almost rain
weighs you down on dear, old Earth,
washing you off your tears.

your words exactly:
"i believe our paths were meant
"to intersect,
"but not to sustain.
"to touch,
"but not to cling.
"to meet,
"but not to unite. "
and i still love you,
despite.

This
isn't
how
things
should
go:

a slow exhaust
from the efforts
of holding on,

to existing outside
the pages of history.

For a simple wish
Count on something to perish
Nothing to cherish.