It is a quiet death.

You do not understand it now

But soon you will, when there is no breath

And hatred smothers the space between

Your lungs and mine.

I dare not speak the closer you get;

What is the point in delaying the inevitable?

It does not matter anyway.

I cannot breathe and you cannot tell,

Hands and lips itching towards mine.

It is a quiet death,

The moment you realize why the very thought of more

(Always emphasized in bold and laced in knowing smiles, as if you want this, crave this)

Terrifies you more than less.

I do not want this.

It is not wrong.

It takes you a long time to understand,

And maybe you never will,

But you are not wrong, and you will not be silenced.

It is a quiet death that ends in your own lungs and hands and lips,

And I want to live more than anything.