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It was you and me, and a deep blue sea.

Not really, but let's pretend. Just for effect.

We'll rip apart the withered doors of the pickup. Throw the dashboard through the windshield. Feel the water run up, drowning our sorrows and last glances. We'll submerge and our scattered remains will show no signs of bloodshed. We'll be the lost corpses of art, lying in dry sand. Leftovers that Evapora's grasp was too weak to fling to Heaven. Our joint words will lie scattered across the plains, stark reminders of long nights, drunk on wit and that red liquid – alcohol with no name. It's the same result, I remember us slurring. Rich men covering up flaws behind thick chardonnay scented mustaches. Irony at its finest.

The sun will have no mercy, though we never expected it to, and will crust lips and hair. But we will remain. Until the coming of the moon. For that is when we'll see the glimpse of our forever. Though we won't be on the ground, but feeble spectators to the plague of stars. No. We'll float up with them, touch liberty at its purest form and never look back. Our inaudible laughs will reverberate and chime through those tormented by economic blues and they'll look up and think. No. Really think and wonder about how their life ended up centered about conformist paper bills when the sky was theirs to take as but infants to life's embrace.