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.