This is us, playing with fire knowing full well we’re going to get scorched.
This is us, setting up the stage for our timely demise.
By arranging the minutiae of our own murder and walking hand in hand to the guillotine.
But this is us, making do with every precious seconds we can spare.
This is us, stealing soft kisses and comforting embraces in the midst of war.
This is us, choosing to play our parts in a love story that was never destined for a happy ending.
Because we are the creations of forlorn vagaries and misplaced yearnings.
And we crossed one too many boundaries just to materialised for a fleeting moment.
Ignoring the brunt of consequences we’ll have to face for this hollow satisfaction.
Then again, we were never build to be hopeless romantics who wished upon a star for miracles.
We’re just two bitter realists, seeking for sanctuary when projectiles rained down on us.
Because our weary souls fathomed how this ephemeral reprieve worth all the upcoming hell.
À la mort,
It’s a fight we’re bound to lose, but that doesn’t mean we couldn’t go out with a blast.