We say, there is a next time. Serial procrastinators. Killers of today.
But you know. Now I feel, that there is no tomorrow. No next time. Only a frail and hardly breathing this time. So pale and sick and fading out, that it makes me shiver to feel its pulse, on my fingertip.
We keep tossing love. Kicking it out from between us now. Assuming that, we will meet again. Through miracles and coincidences. But the ruggedness of our fates, tells us that, our miracles happen as often as never.
The odds are very slim, that we meet again, after a couple years. And regain the spark that used to be. Forget our intermediate loves, and fall for each other again.
Because, next time, it would be too late. Too late. I should feel hopeless. I know you are the one. But.
It's not meant to be I guess. What can you do. What can I do.
* the title is inspired from the title of Jesse Wallace's book from Before Sunset. Call me crazy, if you will. Please. Call me that.