Things are heating up, no doubt. Even after summer's end. Nothing can cool us down, like the sun's coming for us. Holding each other while it burns all around, burned ourselves to ashes. Still, we're left out in the cold.

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Cancer tucked under our arm, death on the schedule. Life has punctuation but we live our sentence like a run-on. Passengers with baggage adding up, we ride to the next stop. Roll up at the after joint with our souls back on foreign soil. We don't want to be here, but can't bring ourselves to leave. 

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Are we supposed to be here at all? Will we survive? Is this practice for the real thing? Is it only the beginning?

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