It’s not the end? It will never be the end. When is the end? Is the end real?
If I knew you then I think there might of been. The end, maybe it’s blue eyes and a crisp breath of fresh air on a winters night.
Or maybe it’s shoestrings tangled around pale ankles, tripping, squabbling, mingled in her hair. In his intrinsic, unrhythmic wording.
Perhaps the end is a purple sunrise next to the ocean on a rainy day. No-no the end lies in strong arms and weak hands.
The end lies Somewhere somewhere far from here or maybe far far far from here or maybe the end it is here no maybe the end is east or west or north or south or anywhere that doesn’t jumble my mind.
The end is a connection a red string from one heart to the next. Snipped. Torn. Or maybe just maybe nonexistent.
The end she thought the end the end the end she smiled she embraced it. Yes oh yes, the end.