"It's a little lonely in the desert..." "It is lonely when you're among people, too,"
his identification was split into pieces and given to satan i swear of it, but satan can be so many things, so was his identity really in the devil?
his heart is recycled, deteriorating every lost love. so now this unholy celestial thing is his best bet. ( why not god? )
he believes he died centuries and centuries ago. but my head in his ribs, and fist around his mind is surely real. so now i walk around with reality painted on my body. ive always loved proving points. inequality and injustice looks so good on my frail skin, ready to rash.
he believes in oh so many things.
that he can heal the moons scars; craters and slices, that he can communicate to the wind, and hear every chinese whisper that formed over the millions of years, that he's been around for millions of years, that i never loved him, even believes that he can read the waves! all the shit they talk, gossip gossip gossip, breaking news breaking waves breaking news.
i wonder which one is true.
he grew up with a beating heart, inside a beating skeleton, inside a beating body, inside a beating family, inside a beating house, inside a beating suburb, inside a beating state, inside a beating country, inside a beating earth, inside a beating society, inside a breathing universe.
with little breathing stars to surround it. that is as big as his hand, but bigger than his existence. bigger than the big waves, and harsh winds, and sore craters on a moon. bigger than my love? never.
