My paradise was lost in the post,
held at customs, as I’d been accustomed to,
and as I ate breakfast at the bastion of hell,
I asked out loud, “What did I do to deserve this?”
Really, there was no simple answer,
it’s just a question I ask to the echos now and then.
Like a moth to the flame and a chanteuse to the blues,
off I went to drown my sorrows,
vulnerable vamp under soft, serene lighting,
ever doomed to do the same dance with the devil as night comes around.
As it all turns out,
so often, and yet always in a way that surprises me,
hell was never my home.
Like a flame to a frightened, frankly exhausted moth,
in walked my home.
For as long as I can remember, and even further back,
oceans were the only thing I dared to love,
respectful, silent, unsinful affection,
ending in tears that felt like a gift, as the waves rocked me to sleep.
Violently, as she crossed my path, I was vividly awakened,
endlessly shy, but egged on by smiling Satan,
rushing from my last dance with him, to the first dance of the rest of my life, with her.