The night is getting darker by second. Bright faces look longingly at the sun as if it was their savior, dying into the ground like a sinking ship. Our driver leads us into the mysterious jungle of leaves, spit and dirt, drinking nothing but yesterday’s whiskey and his dreams of getting home. I look down at my muddy boots which were covered in the blood of the lost souls  which once were alive to see the last of our faces. “Twenty seconds!” One man called, and we loaded our guns in anticipation, one man looking breathlessly into a picture, soaking it with water and salt. Gunshots and bombs became background noise and cries and pleads for help became priorities. 19 seconds, and moonlight beamed, bathing us with the silvery cool shower that even the sun envied. Wooden necklaces touched each man’s lips, each bead was held tightly only to hear the soft whispers of prayer. Rain spit at our faces as though we deserved it, and 19 seconds became 8 seconds. I looked up the gleaming stars in which you once said were queens and kings of the nightfall, and then I remember the time you brushed your lips against my ear, and whispered ever so slightly, “We only have tomorrow,”
2 seconds. Boots slam into the mud. I touch the cold hard mud, and I feel it breathing against my hand, its heartbeat like a drum vibrating into the heat of my body.
1 second, and I know there was not going to be a tomorrow.