the world might end in the afternoon on an average tuesday,
anxiously re-reading a dozen messages without an answer.
when a broken photo frame becomes the last drop
and you find yourself unable to believe that superstitions are stupid
and the familiar ringing of the doorbell sounds like a death sentence.
despite the agony all there is to show is silent acceptance,
because their yesterday's sacrifice bought you another tomorrow
and you can only pray that in that moment they weren't alone.
although this emptiness inside of you feels like a death sentence,
the world ends every single day without anyone knowing.