This Ideal Romance

Will play out very similarly to a

zombie movie, with us starring
as the last two surviving humans
sticking to our guns, always
on the run, bashing in the decaying
brains of the walking dead. The whole
thing will be funded with a few 

credit cards and the special effects 

will suffer for it, but that's half 

the charm. The critics will 

pan it and we won't care.
We'll be too busy racing through
the abandoned streets of some
nameless suburb, warm hand
in warm hand, shotguns slung over
our shoulders, eyes scouring the
overgrown hedges for movement.

We will rarely rest, and the food
will be stale, awful. But we will be strong
with the knowledge that we are the
most brilliant, the most beautiful,
the most alive.

Be comforted in knowing that,
should you succumb to the disease,
should the life start to slip from clenched
fists, that I will grab your neck with filthy
fingers and kiss you passionately before
aligning our heads in such a way that
a single pull of the trigger will bring the film
to a close.

The director will cut the filming right then and leap
from his chair to scream at us. He wanted one of us
to walk off alone, to carry on the fight for the sequels.

We will demand a rewrite. What could he know
of our embattled existence?

No, we will die
together, sharing the last living breath between us.