Beach, Bullet, Love


United States
40° 53' 56.976" N, 72° 53' 13.1748" W

You're in the sunlight and it burns.  It burns and
you wish you had some other way to
deal with it and you look out across the beach.  It's
a nice beach, but the sunlight burns and you're
not sure because everything is too bright.  Consider
the beach.  Up ahead there's a man, and he has
long hair and high cheekbones when he smiles like a
knife.  He doesn't smile much anymore, and never at you.

Imagine God, if he exists.  Imagine him with a dollar-store pen,
writing on index cards about a war, about a car.  Maybe he
wasn't there in the beginning, but he is now
because you believe, even when you hate him (which is
most of the time).

And the man on the beach should be nameless.  It's good to
be nameless -- you have too many names.  He has one.  You
forgot it. You want him to gash his face with that bladed
smile.  You would /kneel/ for that smile.  But you won't
because he doesn't look at you.  You're in the sunlight, and
you burn and he burns, white at his edges, and the length
of him, his spine, his legs, is blinding.  You are too far
away from him and too close to him, and there's no
way to stop you now if you want him.

Consider him and consider the gun in his hand.
You know his heart is in that gun and if he shoots you,
he could love you, but you also know about the thumping blood
you want to smear on his mouth.  It would be so
beautiful, and you would kiss him and he would taste
sweet and strong.  Consider the gun, and walk faster.

Consider the gun and the bullet of his heart.  You don't speak 
love and never have and don't want to.  You want to be shot with
it, brought low by it, by his legs and his knifing smile.  But
he will never shoot you, will never ever do it.
He will walk on and refuse you and only ever say yes once.

You're in the sunlight, burning, and he's looking ahead,
and you can't love him.

He has his heart in his hand, now, and you've got the gun.


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