They

They don't have forever.

They were just two kinds of damned--the kind that sold their souls to alchemy before they even realized what they were doing, realized that it would be so hard to get them back. Two kinds of damned, and it would've been unfair to involve anyone else in their mess ("Why not? You're just as messed up I am").

They turned to each other, surpassing military codes of conducts, shaking the very foundations of morality--they'd lost that long ago, and perhaps they had the right to what little happiness they could find. Neither of them were perfect so what they had was the farthest from it--but then again, nothing ever is ("I've found loopholes for you before, haven't I?").

They considered themselves lucky--luck granted by the devil was luck all the same. For all intents and purposes, no one else would have made such an imperfect fit and if either of them believed in God, they'd have thanked the sadistic bastard for letting their paths cross ("Crazy that I found you, and I wasn't even looking").

They tried to makeup for it in coffee-flavored mouths and bleach-stained touches; snatches of something beautiful as they passed in the hall, handfuls of seconds to themselves in that locked office before someone knocked ("Hush, or they'll hear us").

They lived in a twisted world, which was how they ended up with each other in the first place. How they ended up without. The goodbye wasn't proper; there was never a chance for it, in a time where the walls had eyes and and even the wind was listening. It was unspoken, untouched, and it hurt more than it should have ("Don't let me forget").

They mourned, but years don't wait for people to pick themselves up after a loss, and they stumbled, barely catching up to every passing day. One buried himself in snow and dying embers; the other in the caricatures of faces he once knew. A conspiracy and a circle, a lifetime and a dream, and they stood in front of each other again ("I'm here, but I know you can't stay").

They smile and they don't cry; they weren't built for such trivialities. Now they turn and don't look back, knowing, at least, that that wouldn't be the last. They live, and they learn, and for once in their lives they aren't drowning in wretch and regret. One sees the glint of metal in an officer's holster; the other catches a glimpse of a flame ignited by a matchbook, and they wait ("I'll find a way back, I always do").

They haven't forgotten, of course, that they never had forever.

But they do have this--whatever it was, and it's enough.