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Road trip back to Egypt, for I am sick and sick and sick of the Promised Land, but all of your monuments and money can not touch the milk and honey of my Canaanite lover: she has a steady hand.

I wrote a hymn in jet black ink that I stole from you. You wrote a summer’s worth of epistles, they were diseased with truth. I wrote a hymn in April, and I will write my own eulogy soon because I have died 24 times a day since you foretold what I would do.

You foretold what I would do.

Go ahead and cross that river alone, but there is something I have to tell you (it is something that you already know): the bridge freezes before the road and even fire seems cold when it is written in stone.

No one reads what you write in stone.

I wrote a hymn in jet black ink that I stole from you. You wrote a summer’s worth of epistles, they were diseased with truth. I wrote a hymn in April, and I will write my own eulogy soon because I have died 24 times a day since you foretold what I would do.

It is so heavy. It is so heavy. Kiss me. Kiss me before I am out of breath.
It is so heavy. It is so heavy. Kiss me. Kiss me until there is only lightness left.
Why so heavy? Why so heavy? Turn off the light because we are going to wallow in the mess.
It is so heavy. Why so heavy? Kiss me. We will pretend we know what is best.

We will pretend.