Eight hundred degrees.
Not a second ticks
in which I do not think
of her lonesome face
as she watches the Earth fill in.

Six months pass.
I am still here,
and you, still there.
Islands to each other.
And myself, to God.

My skin is nevermore,
but I hope you can look past.
For in my heart, I still beat.
I still long
to hold your hand.

But I know how things must be.
If love is death then I am but Romeo.
And if a widows remorse brings new love,
then surely, you are not my Juliet.
To be, or not to be.