We're on top of the world,
but don't look down.
We can't blink and let our eyelashes brush away
all hopes of oblivion.
We're alone in the dark,
the echoing silence pressing us between trust and uncertainty,
the untouchable perfection of infinity keeping us suspended
above abandon and forgiveness.
The moon kisses our cheeks and bids us goodnight,
the silvery imprint of it's lips slowly fading into our sinners skin.
We're merely postage stamps attached to a secret
sent off to someplace far away in this milky world.
We're forgotten souls whose only chance at deliverance
is retrieving lost hopes strewn across the beauty of the universe.
We're holding hands,
alone together in the blackness that
hovers over and dwarfs our miniature worlds.
People forget that this eternity of immortal onyx skies
could swallow them whole.
The only thing left of them would be their miserable eyes,
floating in the emptiness to become shining stars.
We collect their hopes and lace them with our dreams
and drop them in a series of colors that lay on the sullen landscape.
Sunsets that sleep on the horizon and disappear in the minutes
that we planned out so carefully.
Three sixty seconds of bliss is just enough time
to die.
With our eyes closed and fingers drifting apart,
we're only remembered for those three minutes of
oranges and pinks and purples.
We fade while the twilight overtakes our creation of
imminent destruction of beauty.
The eyes of stars laugh, because they know
we won't survive these immortal skies.
