If I were to talk to god,
I imagine that he would look like an aging French artist living in Germany,
With a slightly severe case of depression
And also an unsettling smoking addiction.
I imagine he would be living in an apartment room barely big enough for his ego.
With nothing but a bed and a nightstand
with an ash tray and a bottle of whiskey, half full.
And between puffs of smoke he would sip from a lowball glass, and sit.
He’d keep his door unlocked, for no one ever visits,
And when they do, they assume they’ve opened the wrong door
And they would quickly go search for the man they thought he was.
He’d let out a chuckle between sips.
However, if I were to meet this artist,
I would just ask him what he’s done.
And he will reply, with smoke trailing from his nostrils and the tone of a drunk,
"Hell if I know."
I remember the days
where we could laugh and play
in the middle of August.
Those days where the sun
had no bounds. We played
until we couldn't breathe, until
our voices were no more than
shallow sounds lost in the breeze
that carried them until they
lost meaning.
Looking back, I wonder when that day came.
When did those voices fall mute?
When did they die?
Or maybe, are they out there?
Still floating on the wind,
lofty clouds that will never rain?
I'm on the Empire State Building.
The air has never felt so thin,
my clothes so light,
almost weightless in the way they fit.
It's rush hour.
Below me, the bustling pace
of the Big Apple. New York City
never sleeps, so they miss things often.
It's a Sunday morning.
I can hear the bells...
They're louder than usual today.
Is there a wedding?
Everything's black.
The dresses, suits, the ties, the back of my eyelids.
I'm at the peak of the city that never sleeps.
The angels have begun descending.
I'm ready.