jesus didn’t mean for this to come out during drinks with christ
coins in fish guts, teeth in bread, always a crowd and never a reason.
you blink slow like you already know the light’s changed. i tell you anyway. it’s done. the miracle act, the long-game joke, the crowd work that stopped working. i want the morning cold on my arms like it used to be, before the sky got trained to behave. this eternal thing, this long hallway you parked me in. i never got to choose the body. you just dropped in, ascended out, left the meat sweating under robes and light. and i kept showing up for the tricks, coins in fish guts, teeth in bread, always a crowd and never a reason. they look through us like storefront glass, like we’re old sales they walked past twice. you watched the rot same as me, mildew on the offering plates, hands turning soft at the altar. you told me even fire forgets where it started. and i believed you. do we leave quiet, like fog peeling off a lake, or loud, like the glass breaking before the scream. not asking for much. just the scene where i don’t get written out. i want the last word, even if it’s just me mouthing it in the dark.
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