I left for hell in a handcart.

I waved goodbye, wished them well.

I vowed a postcard from the fiery pits,

signed by vagabond, me.

On my way to the ground, I stopped at a pub crawl.

Somehow this place led me to heaven.

I was one over the eight

when I stumbled outside.

Headed for nothing.

The scene kids were smoking,

holding beers like glass flutes

during a Sunday brunch recovery.

Dim bar, silver haze,

You’d spy, over there, me–

despair in a ponytail.

I swore it had to be an angel

with those three tiny freckles

and a gold chain around his neck–

it had to be his halo.

And little did I know that his soul

would save me from the devil

lurking inside me.

He says “hello”

and I get carried away

from this low-lit town and

these low-life conversations

about him and her and

all of their friends.

His voice was as refreshing

as petrichor after a

period of drought and trial.

Lips that taste like cinnamon chai,

looking into his deep brown eyes.

I tell him to sip slow on this night,

so he doesn’t burn himself.

It was when I came in contact

with this celestial being

that I realized, maybe

I did want to stay a bit longer.

I told Charon not to wait for me.