Friday mornings listening to Suki Waterhouse reading The Last Ride Together to death, thinking about the idea that heaven and beauty lie only just beyond us, and we live only to straddle the periphery
On his last ride, all he wanted was bliss
to die with, but it’s a funny thing because
bliss and beauty and all its friends don’t really exist here, we’re on the wrong
side of the world, I think maybe we lost it all where they belong, so we
stretch ourselves out on the lawn
looking for things like it, collecting
buds and twigs, running fingers through
golden locks, stalking the daisies because nothing’s
really gold, so we stroke on and if it’s warm
we’ll waltz under the sun’s glow,
imitate heaven itself, peering through
the pearly gates in our slippery reflections, running
through our palms like water, like the salvation, we denied in church, hoping
to cling on to our youth,
maybe beautiful is so real it exists outside our steadily drawn
dimensions, but this soil is all we have and it fits,
in these traced out hollowed secrets, the nooks
where even angels fear to step
and in a moment it’s ours,
scrawled down and kissed in sketches of all we hoped we are
