hymn for the godless

you once said to me there was a rhythm in the way we peeled ourselves apart; like fruits spoiling in the sun, tearing off each other’s sweet flesh and melting peach into the earth.

in another version we are peeling back our shoulder blades to make room for angel wings. you’re saying come here, my little icarus, the sun is so far away and i am so close, and there is no flight in this sacrifice of ours, anyway, no mythological wonder, we are too godless and small to touch the bird-blue sky.

and they wouldn’t say it like this, but i know we became divine for one moment. it was the second where you were tending to my wounds, rebuilding your little barefoot lover in the white dress, and i was watching the stars turn above the open field, and in the silence i swear i heard the humming of your lawless boy body.

there is one more version of this story, of course, the one where i am clawing at the legs of your ghost in the middle of the night, and i am tearing your bones apart for one last glance at your heart. but you are already gone, darling, there isn’t a thing beating inside of you, just a drum-boy marching down a burning hill, beating out a war song. he is the sacrifice, the showman, all dressed up to die. he looks up into the vast sky of your body

and i am a god for one breath

as he tells me you are long gone.