Entre Cielo y Tierra / by Rebecca Tillett

When she'd look at you, when she'd look at you and say, "I don't know what happens after all of this, I don't know what happens but I feel like the answer is somewhere inside you," like one dying star to another, like your mother demanding the truth, you'd hope so much that she was right your heart would ache. Did you drink the whiskey? Did you call a truce with time? She won't stop searching because she loves you, because she can't imagine her soul disentangled from yours, space forever multiplying between you. Will there be music? There must be music. Could the universe be so cruel? Don't smile unless you mean it. Don't stop looking at her with gratitude. Don't take anything for granted. Non smettere di dire che ti amo in diverse lingue. Let her read, her voice a soft lullaby, until you fall asleep against her leg. Let her make you eggs and toast with blueberries and coffee. Is breá liom tú. Let her smoke while she whispers about God and death and the answers she believes a part of you. She pulls her lips to your ear and says sweetly, "I don't think God's out there, baby, I think God's in here," while she rests her palm on your ribcage. "Entre cielo y tierra no hay secretos, mi amor," you say because you've been inside her, and you've found God, and you've stopped searching.