Certain in the wisdom in the destruction of everything, god is a teenager in love. With needles. With watching the Universe through the peephole of a wild-eyed boy with a pair of heartbreaking wings and voice gloved in cold sweat and mercury (silver) tenderness, his hands so much younger than tougher.

God stands by the bed holding out their shaking panic, secretly burning a double millennia old promise to be unseen and unheard: in remission and in recovery.

God unbuckles their belt with a distinct air of self punishment. Preparing for either flagellation or an injection. God’s desire is a pair of fretful hands with gravity and a forceful wildness pressed against their chest.

These are gods shaking knees. This is the dirt under god's nails (chewed and bleeding). This is god's burnt tongue. These are gods stinking impacted wisdom teeth. This is god’s breath backed by god’s wet mouth. This is god's cock and this is god's cunt. These are god’s numb hands. This is god’s absentmindedness. This is god’s fractional impotence. This is god’s penchant for disappointment.

The wild-eyed boy turns over and pretends to sleep. God does the same.

God graduates from isolated love and conquest and comes to find the wild-eyed boy’s Midwestern approach to things familiar in the mournful emptiness of a house of nondescript picture and memory. His curiosity no longer filled the air. Nor his flustered squinting eyes. Nor the wrinkling of his summer ginger nose. Nor the puckering of his salty lips chased with limes. Nor the moments just before his great toothy laugh. God’s breath is hardly taken. Nor is the wild-eyed boy’s.

In the dim and gray light of morning, the flicker in god’s face is otherwise bare and shoeless. God’s heart is atrophied and callous. A cigarette precedes god’s big square teeth telling the beginning of a story.
On a napkin god wrote:
1,000 layers of pain
And for better or worse
I couldn’t seem to give you up.

God folds the napkin and slips it between the pages of a book and leaves the wild-eyed boy sleeping there. For three days god wanders. On the third day, god resumes the form of a gathering of often misplaced and abandoned things: knives and forks... anomalies and idiosyncrasies... silk lingerie and dirty socks… vulnerability and combustibility... dirty magazines and empty houses... the paradox of love and discord... fingers and tongue... dominion and heart... shutoff notices and diplomas… star stuff and red number four hundred and twenty lipstick... undisciplined exuberance and clumsy existentialism... body and mind... the will to live and the fear of death… challenged spirit and crushing embrace... paragraph and eulogy... antilogarithms and abnegations... prospect of resistance and nostalgic postscript. All salvageable incarnations of character and adventure eager to be made whole again.

The Universe went on indefinitely. The wild-eyed boy died of lonesomeness. God went on to receive many accolades for their illustrious ability to be overlooked. Later god moved onto other things, turning their efforts to their unremarkable bedroom rap career until fading into cult obscurity, never to be seen again.