I don’t know how this all will end.
Maybe in the most grandiose fashion, we meet in the middle, our fingers touch and it tears the universe apart, we see a massive crack all the way from where I live to Ecuador and a new dimension erects from the dimension of time.
Fuck you, time.
Maybe in the most depressing way, the kind where star-crossed lovers die in each others’ arms and the audience struggles to know how to feel. We don’t want anyone to die, but SOMEONE HAS TO DIE SO WE CAN UNDERSTAND WHAT LOVE IS. We hold hands and float into a black hole and I whirl longer and longer, like a spag bo, your favorite. And you too, till our insides explode and we are left with nothing but mixed up guts, just floating in space. And then nothing.
We end in the most violent way, where plates clang on walls, both of us crying and things got broken, we shouted at each other at least we are talking about this, at least we are crying and at least we are feeling something. You make me want to stomp my own head against the curb.
We end in the most perfect way, what are emotional baggage? I have none because I am a fucking psychopath. We bid our goodbyes and say thanks, we meet 5 years later and there is no sexual tension because we are such great fucking friends. Here we are sipping gin and tonic by the deck talking about stealing traffic cones in our youth. We don’t even like gin. Or tonic.
Or maybe it ends with a sense of dread waking up because time is slowly passing, and I can’t do anything but maybe watch like a helpless bystander when a car crash happens, so I lie in bed with you and try to feel what I feel all the time. Feeling whole just by being in the same room with you. We look at each other, fluttering our eyelids, this is the last time we can be as close as this again. I touch your face, and we don’t say anything because we know this is how it ends.