On The Outskirts of Heaven

Listen, listen, listen, please, you hear but I need you to listen to everything I’m screaming without opening my mouth, I need you to put aside these games and just listen to me.
Please. Listen before it’s too late.
Beneath these webs we want the same thing. You want me to want you, and I already do.
I swear, just open your eyes and listen. You’ll find me behind the whirlwind haze of glitter that surrounds you.
Here I am, on the outskirts of heaven trying to look straight at you.
Between my rose glasses and your glittering halo there’s not much I can see.
Between my rose glasses and your glittering halo there’s not much to see.
(If only you’d feel.)
If only all these people could get out of our way, then we could be our curtains-down, kitchen-sink selves. I could breathe and you could smile like the world was ours.
Like the world wasn’t ending.
Like we didn’t make so many mistakes that slept on our shoulders while we stayed up at night.
Like we weren’t making new ones every time we looked away.
The ghosts in my city like to count my mistakes out loud, I wonder if you hear their echo all the way to where you are.
Wherever you are.
I wonder if you hear me calling you home.

Hell And Heaven.

Jean-Paul Sartre once said

In a play

That hell

Is other people,

But then,

My dear

Isn’t heaven too?

In the questioning looks,

In the coy smiles,

In the inside jokes,

And the twinkling eyes?

There,

A bliss exists,

Seldom found anywhere else,

But in those simple moments

Where nothing exists,

But for you

And him.

Makes you wonder

Doesn’t it, darling,

Are hell and heaven

Really as different

As they are made out to be

If both exist

In the grays of his eyes?

 


Image taken from here.