(old lovers, and old gods i wish were lovers)

did he know the weight of words?

god says meaning lies not with words but with baskets of fruit. bouquets of wildflowers. we are calm in the garden of my mind, but that is because neither of us exist. not in the garden, not outside of it. my body is a carnival tent. god wears a shawl of pain. it’s my shawl. it’s my pain. together we cry and together we collect ashtrays. together we **** our fingers and dip them in the ashes. together we draw circles on my stomach. together we darken my ******* and my eyelids, and only then do we take turns writing words like cavern and winter inside my thighs.

god left that night.

i scream like an animal. i sleep with the tent and the shawl around me. i try to make them a sky. i ask why, my hand holding the circle of my belly... but it’s my fault. i symbolize everything. circles. crickets in the quiet. i only draw circles when i want to be held. i only hear crickets when holding is near. and my answer to loneliness had left- left and placed a new door in the every-room. a door i watch but never try to open. once i asked the door if it could hold me, but i asked it quietly. once i asked if it could hear the crickets. once i almost knocked.