Annunciation

Yesterday, I wrote your initials with ice cubes and licked when they started to melt. I felt like a dog. Some kind of sedate old german shepherd waiting in the corner of the kitchen, hallucinating water on the floor. 

There is something esoteric in the way I root for you all the time, looking for your taste in the karaoke’s drinks, searching for your eyes in the stroboscopic neon light at the club. I created a magical version of you where, when I think of your sole name, you love me more. Do you think I’m going mad? Do you think I’m worth the lunacy? 

Some days, I’m in the small alcove at the top of your father’s house, right behind Mary’s praying hands. I think, maybe, I was born there, a small, everlasting void between the virgin’s heart and her soiled fingers. I watch you all the time. I watch you get out and come back and when the wind tries to catch me, I just tell him about you. It’s our Annunciation. I tell him: “Soon, we’ll be somewhere else, soon, we’ll be free.” I don’t think nature believes me when I talk about love, I easily confuse it with other things. Thirst, mostly. I’ll go to the river and believe it’s your soul I’m drinking and I’ll call it love but God knows it’s just survival. If I don’t love you I think my spit will turn into blood, and I’ll just fucking die all the time. I don’t know what to be if not yours. 

— Monday Boy