in some life we’re together.
in a cottage that’s completely overgrown with ivy.
tucked in the nook of a quiet residential area where trees arch over the roads so densely only a few strands of sunlight spill through.
and all of the doors are unlocked and all of the windows are open.
there’s nothing bad to keep out, to ward off, to drive away.
and the neighborhood kids ride their bikes outside and play hopscotch and eat ice lollies that turn their tongues bright pink and orange.
and there’s a beautiful, golden-fleece lab and no one knows who he belongs to,
but we’ve decided his name is Buster. obviously.
and Buster’s really friendly so i’m not afraid of dogs anymore.
[i’m not afraid of anything anymore.
‘fear’ is a word i’ve never heard, and never spoken].
and the postman throws the paper at our big, red door [the color of the lipstick i’m always wearing].
and we hear it as it hits the wood – a soft thud.
[there is no bad news. everything here is slow and soft]
you’re on your third glass of OJ, because here time is nothing and your coffee does not turn cold.
and there’s French toast and maple syrup and we’re never full but never empty.
we’re never empty.
and somewhere in the back garden we’ve got that pale lilac tree that won’t stop blooming,
so all of our overgrown grass is laced with lilac too. and Melody Noir is playing on a loop we never get tired of, from a record player we can’t see and don’t question.
i sit on the sunbathed porch bricks and see how many blossoms I can shove into my wild hair, and you watch me.
and it’s enough. everything here is enough.
even though it seems too good to be true, here,
nothing is a lie and everything is exactly as it seems – as we wish it.
nobody really knows what heaven is,
but maybe it will be this.
I want it to be this.