If the boy who
draws
let’s you look over his
shoulder.
If the
poet
smiles
and shows you her
words.
If the girl who sings for the shower
only,
hums a
song
in front of
you.
Know that you’re no longer a
person
but the
air
and dust
that fills their
lungs.
When the world
perishes,
and all things cease to
exist,
you’ll remain inside an ink
stain,
a paint
brush,
a song.
