Maybe this is part of something. Maybe it's not.
It got inside our heads as the world was changing, and we knew we'd do this, knew we'd be unable to see it through and could ask only for forgiveness and never for permission. We would string words together and maybe there would be truth at the end but probably we'd just be dead.
We rode in strangers' cars, ninety miles an hour with six packs in our laps, screaming out the windows as we raced trains and skidded over the track grading backwards. We broke arms jumping from trees while pretending to be superheroes.
We were invincible, we were more than anything and it would have to be enough, because if it weren't we were nothing at all.
We were plot we were form we were gunshots on a quiet cold afternoon. We were everything and nothing and we were, for brief moments, all the happiness we claimed to hold.
The moments never held, and we tried not to mind but the little things followed us and burned and crunched beneath our heels as they died. We pretended to care, but that too was a lie and eventually we couldn't tell the borders between the lies and reality and we had never wanted them in the first place.
We carried on as if nothing had happened and at the end, when it fell apart into physics and regrets, that willful ignorance wasn't quite the kick it had been on the day we met.