When the world ends, I hope you invite me to dinner.
I hope we sit under the yellow fluorescent lighting, and you tell me all the things you became, and
I’ll tell you all the books I’ve read and things I’ve learned and people I’ve loved.
I hope that for just this small passage of time that our souls intertwine once more, you don’t tell
me you regret anything.
I hope you say that it hurt to do it, but it had to be done because look at who we became and what
we did with our lives.
I hope you tell me I was right, that I always knew you’d be great, and you knew I’d to be too but
maybe not together in that small chapter of our lives spent in the back of your dad’s car
dreaming of running away.
I hope you tell me you love me, and mean it, not in a “we’re going to die so I love you” way but in
an “I’m happy despite my body being inevitably forgotten by civilization after this and there’s no
other person I want to experience the end of the world with and I love you’” way.
I hope your sister got that degree and your mom finally got away from your dad and your dog
lived a long, happy life and now she’s digging up sticks in God’s backyard.
I hope you listen when I tell you not to blame yourself and that if it was meant to be, it would have
despite how hard we tried to rewrite fate’s song.
I hope when the world caves in, you hold my hand and make some stupid joke about dying
before you get to cliff jump because if there’s a proper way to go, I think it would be next to you,
watching as you find the stars in the pitch-black sky again.
When the world ends, I hope I die knowing that you loved me and that it was enough. It was