God died on a Friday
and on a Saturday my body
stopped working, stitched to a deathbed.
Every day a window is left open
for the dust to settle
atop sweaty, kiss-ridden foreheads.
Remember that when birds are dead,
then so am I. Hitched breaths, forgive me!
The stars behind my eyelids are getting brighter now.
My tingling skin explodes with longing,
rivers form sentences—isolated, unheard
from across islands abandoned for something greater.
Letters creased at the corners
where hands are supposed to touch.
As Sunday sings another lullaby.