Time is not a concept,
it’s a preconception
created by people that have never felt
love.

Or, so I always believed.

Now, I sit awake every night
thinking about our expiration date,
the day to which we
meet a bitter demise.

A demise devised by
a whole world around us,
a world that will
never see the shrink sticker stuck.

The ticking won’t stop
on the time bomb of us,
as we leap, crawl, roll, dart
to our expiration date.

We can’t stop rolling,
faster down this path
to a little place that
will be our personal hell.

A hell that we believe in,
a hell that he is counting on,
a hell that hath its fury,
a hell that I am dreading.

Yet, everyday I take your hand,
kiss your fingers,
caress your lips,
and stare at the brilliance that is your eyes

in an attempt to forget
our expiration
date.