If the boy who draws
lets 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.
— Alaska Gold

sweet