And I’m sure the view from heaven
Beats the hell out of mine here
And if we all believe in heaven
We can make it through one more year
Down here

--View from Heaven, Yellowcard

I stand still beside her as she waits at the city bus stop. People swarm around like ants infesting a picnic.

No one notices her.

She doesn’t notice me.

Her hair is darker than I remember it being. The fall colors reflect in the light of her dark eyes. I reach out and touch her hand, moving closer to embrace her slender form. She shivers as a comforting breeze holds her for a moment, and then vanishes as I step away to board the bus with her.

No one notices her.

She does not notice me sitting beside her canvas bag filled with notebooks. Five blocks whiz by, I see more reds and golden colors reflect in the light of her eyes and the folds of her hair.

I remember being in love with her. I remember the night we slept under the stars in each other’s arms.

And as I begin to remember, so does she.

Ten more blocks go by as we relive the final days we spent together, before heaven separated us.

Finally, she stands up and exits the bus silently. I hold her hand as she walks to her house just down the street. The square brick building is charming, and reminds me of the vine-covered house she had in the town we had met in. The town we had loved each other in. I had died in. Upon entering, we’re greeted by her uncle and my mother. They are cooking dinner, and pause. They feel the burden of my soul on her. With a soft sigh her voice murmurs, “A year ago…”

She leaves them in the kitchen to go to her room. It is far different from the one I had relaxed in on rainy afternoons. Where we would rest on her bed and hold each other, books surrounding us. In this new room there are photographs on the wall, all in black and white. It is painted a cream color, with a single wall her bed rests against being black. Her furniture is all black, in that same tasteful charcoal color. I perch upon the desk as she sits down, pulling out her notebooks and pen. I watch her write down a poem that makes me smile a sad smile.

I lean down to whisper in her ear, “I love you, Mea. I will never stop loving you. Even here, in death.”

Her head moves up and looks at me with two sad eyes, her now short, dirty blonde hair falling in small curls into her face. Only, she doesn’t see me. She sees past me, to the bedroom, which she has hidden in for a year. For a year I had not been able to hold her. For a year she had seen straight through me to the wall behind me, to the lamppost in the dark street, to the person standing in my shadow.

She sits like that for only a second before she scribbles down another sentence and rips the page from the notebook. I follow her to the closet that was filled with papers. She threw in the poem and closed the door. I reach out, and pull it before the door shuts. She does not see. She goes back to her bed and changes out of her clothes, into a long nightgown before crawling into bed to cry.

I sit down next to her, resting me hand against her cheek, stroking away her tears as I read her poem.

A place called Paradise
May never exist
But I think I found its meaning
Behind your lips

Sanctuary may only be in the mind
And if that’s so
Than why do we waste
So much time?

Rapture may not be a place
But I know I can find it
Every time I look
At your face

For all the bliss I’ve found in you
Heaven would be a limitation
Attempting to separate
Me from you

With so much time spent
Searching for happiness
People will waste their lives away
Then ask themselves where it went

I know I’ll never have to look too far
To know that because of you
And who you are
This life I lead

Has a meaning greater
Than finding the ultimate haven
For mine is in your eyes, your arms
Your simple touch is all I need to make my life
A Paradise