Holding

You say to make the most of this life, I think to let go of everything would be the blessing here, a suicide. A life, far from this one. Nothing amounts to the feeling, it's inevitable that it'll happen, only too soon - they hope not. Or do they, since when, you tell me. Or don't, why would it matter. I hope it'll be soon. Every moment, every day when I'm feeling like this. And sometimes it's so good, that feeling's so nice, empty words, just adjectives shoved in there for good measure, but that's not what'll matter in the end. Say, I'm laughing on this last time, 'time, you always needed more time, but all we've ever had is time,' I need no more time.