Hell is other people, that much is true. but
A story Sartre wont tell is heaven is other people too. and yes, the
Passerbys cause me to cry, for that's not you in the red
Prius.
Yet, the lilacs on the side of the road profess a secret, that
By nightfall you won't be the only one beneath it—
I swear to you that i'll make it to the greener grass soon. and though your
Rain may loosen the chain,
The—my—umbilical cord is still a leash. however,
Heaven wasn't quite so out of reach as when we were laughing in the car in Atlanta. so now, when you
Dance in the corner of my eye, even though this hell may—for now—have No Exit, i'll remember you were the c*tcher in my r*e.
A day without you is just my plummet-ment, but
You're my heaven sent, and as i keep falling into darkness I'll remember the best kind of madness is love.
