We shelter in our bodies while the storm
contributes only to the paradise
of staring into liquid chocolate eyes.
We make imperfect bodies’ perfect form.
God is your only judge. I wish us hell.
I wish us our eternity. I long
for storms to silence every other voice,
to sing our celebration of a choice
to live defiantly of right and wrong.
God might judge us, but I judge him as well.
Not even hell survives reality.
There are no storms for us. There is no kiss
that cracks the heavens with its blasphemy;
there’s just the calm of this: this nothingness.