I've lived so many lives
In the books that I've read
I am apart of their journey
And i take them with me
Every thought in my head
And words in my mouth
Are because I have died,
And i have lived
More life's than i could ever imagined
A book isn't just a story
Its everything
The creation of life itself
You fall in love with
Every page
Every chapter
Every sentence
And you carry them with you

You think you know someone till thier life is put to the test.
They shrink like a coward,
They hide behind every wall or corner they can find.
While you stand there,
Taking every bullet to the chest.

Brisk early morning

The sun barely shining

Birds are cherping

Trees are singing

The moon still gleaming

Cigarette still burning

Lungs slowly dying

Life is ending

Sadness is killing

Time is nothing

And death is pleasuring

Was it love?
That shot us into thin air making our insides burn
Like the universe was punishing us
And setting fire to our heart?
Was it lust?
That turned us into the dust that collects on your bedside shelf
That your mother nags you to clean?
Was it love?
That made us break into abandoned buildings at 4 a.m and see flashing lights outside the broken glass windows
Then racing into the trees with racing hearts that could barely breathe?
Was it lust?
That pushed us into this nothingness but disire and we craved every part of one another until there was no space left between us?
Was it love.
Or
Was it lust.