Tell me that gods are removed from the world and I’ll believe you, because there’s nothing more real and less removed (but more uncaring, hello Mr. Watchmaker) from a creation than a creator

Tell me that creation is a crime and then open your eyes and let me /show/ you, let me lift the veil from your face and your lips, let me show you show yourself to the world, or just show yourself to you, because freedom is in hiding, but there is a greater freedom in being yourself, as great as you can.

Dance naked with me in the garden of Eden, and climb the apple tree with me, and together we’ll glut ourselves, twine together our naked limbs, and when god comes down to ask what exactly we think we’re doing, I’ll press an apple to his lips and tell him to tell me that it is not the sweetest tasting thing in the world

Defiance is, they say, sweet, and revenge is best served cold, and crispy clean lines are the aesthetics for the northern believers, but I believe in a perfect chaos and coincidence, and coincidence has found me on the branch outside your window, knocking to be let in.

I’m holding up a pomegranate, just to be sneaky, but I’ve got an apple behind my back and there’s no snake here, just a sleek grin, and if you see fangs then blink and they’ll be gone, I swear.  The taste of freedom is sweet on your lips, and your breasts are bared, and there is nothing fake or unreal about any of this, and I’m not drunk or high or hallucinating, I swear.

Freedom means being able to choose yes or no, and free will means the ability to deny yourself.

But there is a tree in your back yard that taps on your window at night, and when taps turn to knocks I hope you never turn it down.  

Ephemeral means temporary, fleeting, and the soap-bubble analogy has been done at least as often as the butterfly, but love is for eternity and so is choice, and you can twist and choose, and the roads are never clear except for when you’re on the highway.

Go off the road, darling, pick your path, and I’ll believe in coincidence that will lead you back (to me) to that everlasting choice (to live) to live you or live another, (to be) to own yourself fully or to discover yourself in submission, and either choice is yours to make.  It is always yours to make.

There’s a tree outside your window, and I hope that instead of driving away, you’ll climb out and walk in the middle of the night until your feet bleed and you are hopelessly lost enough to find anything in the world.  Leave me a sign to let me know you’ve gone.  No.  Leave me an apple.  And I hope that when I follow, I find no pristine, whole, green thing left on your symmetrical concrete steps when you leave for work in the morning, coffee and toast and a slowly-warmed engine, but something covered with the dirt on the ground, ragged bites torn out.  And I’ll pick it up, spit for cleaning, and the twenty-four hour rule, and I hope to perfection and I hope to chaos that I’ll meet you in the thorns of the underbrush, covered in scratches, and find you in the desert with a full canteen, and join you up a tree, pale green deception and the full meaning of life in your eyes

Chewing

Slowly

On that apple.