kneelings
God cuts himself in Eden but this isn’t a dream. I eat near my son. My son cannot imagine himself beyond yesterday. My happiness for him trails off like a language the brain can decide on. I worry my pretty little head over the amount of skin god goes through daily. Yearly I sleep for a baby or two.
Nothingness surrounds its own escape. God a godless ghost stuck in a thirst trap. Death has one shape but the lonely are fast learners. There were things in my mouth put there to check on my mouth. My son is as young as a hoax. As god needing rest. As not wanting to eat you but wearing your clothes.
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