Surely, peach-tinted pollen and sunny days have turned tiresome
and you long for a day of rain.
Surely, gliding along ethereal clouds has grown monotonous,
and you dream of touching ground.
Surely, the glory of tending to all of our prayers has dulled,
and you yearn for a day to yourself, a day to grant your own desires.

Ghostlike fingers whisper, countless gossamer wings.
Everything is evanescent, untouchable.
The lands are flat, and all is quiet.
You’re too tall for the tallest mountains, the seemingly infinite redwoods.
Too high for the birds’ songs, the crashing waves, the children’s laughter.
No one speaks, no one sings because silence is part of the paradise.
But paradise is fleeting.
Long forgotten. 

Gates made to keep ghosts out now hold you prisoner.
Divine eyes deny you gaiety,
and freedom bars you from any attempt at life. 
But please, ignore your honor.
Pretend you’re as immoral as I,
as subjective,
as desiring of love,
and return to me.