1:52, Saturday afternoon
Aunt and grandma chatting through sips of tea
About a poor couple, light perished so swiftly
Now-cold bodies riddled with ******.
I thought quietly to myself:
Did they die contently? In each other's arms?
Or did those arms instead grip
At the fading sensation of skin
Begging not to let go,
As the euphoria turned to pain
As death crept into their bones?
It's times like this, during thoughts of these,
When my mind leaves the room
And travels towards thoughts of us
And how if I had to die, I'd die in your arms
Or in bed, with our bodies almost touching,
Smiling at the lightning that dances in the spaces between us,
Can you feel it?
And at that moment of collapse
When my lungs stop rising
I'll draw in my last breath of you
That darling smell of yours, indescribable.
So I must ask,
Could that couple have possibly felt
What we can feel when we lay in the dark,
When I trace roadmaps onto your body,
When your warm breath paints words
Around the nape of my neck?
I don't know. I don't care.
It's easily just as deadly.
But there's nowhere I'd rather be
Than addicted to you
At 1:52
On a Saturday afternoon.