A Metaphysical Doom

It's perilous, the affairs of Palestine, the politics of Syria, the Yemen. But it's also perilous to be twenty-two, to be a girl, to be into you. You kissed me in cold nights, more colder me but you should not have talked like that, like you have. You should not have crossed my fingers in yours and pressed them towards the Cross of the holy altar. You should not have slept on my breasts, my heart was dangerously close. Now, I am never satiated, I want to kiss you, again and again until the end of time. I become your version of you sometimes. I think it's another failed attempt to be closer like this letter where I am carving out your name. Unknown name on unknown papers with unknown inks in unknown part of the world. I will read this when I am fifty. For now I impersonate you, I drink till my liver fails me. I drink with random strangers and it's perilous. They tell me, my naked body was rolling on the floor last night and I puked in all the beautiful places. I don't remember a thing about that but why the fuck I remember you? It's doomsday, you are running for your life. You didn't even notice, I walked right past you, brushing against you. I am running too, away from you because I just can't see you die. I can see myself die instead. So, I wait, am waiting and every single sensitive strand of my body is alive to the effect of this water which is filling up my lungs. I am offering my last prayers. I wish my kisses were not so poisonous that they made you lose your memory.