I know that matter always flows into void, filling it up with something to feed on.
At least there is the concept of a higher power for me to consider. At least there are these cycles of worship and holiness in the human psyche that wind around and into each other as they take different forms, like ivy growing through a corpse.
And I repeat this prayer. At least. At least. At least.
I think God is the box where we put the things we can no longer carry in our hands.
At the meeting place of fear and desire, I pluck a feather from myself, drag it across your open wound, then set it upon the wind.
This matter, detached from ourselves, will now flow into someone else’s void.
We stain each other, and only afterwards realize there is beauty in the irreversible.
All of us, filling each other with our leftovers.
All of us, hungry.