God sang us to sleep last night.
Tonight we die.
What do you do with your last day on earth? Where do you go? You go where the love is. Whom do you see? You see the ones you love. Of course, if you have no one nowhere, then you search. You make one last, desperate attempt to find the love you crave. We crave. Nothing motivates us better than love. It motivates us to try, to do and to die. Love starts wars. Love breaks whores. Love makes money, and love makes us laugh at things that really aren’t funny — like death.
God came last night to tell us we had to go. The time had come. We knew all along that we had only a limited time here, but we never thought it would end so soon. We had so much left to do. Even we, however, cannot argue with God.
We took our one last day gratefully and set out to make the most of it. New blue jeans and shiny, red boots helped set the mood. We curled our hair up into fat and sassy loops. We dabbed perfume here, there, under lobe, between breasts, behind knee, in pubic tussly… just in case. You never know when you’ll get lucky and find love.
We went out. We walked the streets. We made a splash of color in an otherwise monochrome movie reel. Gray smeared everything a hazy inconsistency. Nothing committed. The stoplights didn’t shout red. The taxis didn’t scream yellow. Signs flapped like limp-wristed, half-hearted, drained rainbows. We scorned the Seattle winter.
Wet dogs roamed the streets. Faces immune to change, they marched along without hands, without life. Sparks here and there caught our eye, but when we looked we found only the artificial. Drugs.
The water in which you drown shines like that too, in the moment before you die. But, we had hope — the hope of the condemned. We kept looking because we knew the injustice if we were to die never having known love.
The coffee house had Jesus on the front facade. It had many Jesi on the inside. A crucifix for every day of the year, including a satisfying image of Pee Wee Herman nailed up in mimicry of the Christ. We smiled. We ordered a latté, wet, tall, triple, fat-free. So did he.
Have you ever seen the kind of eyes that are impossible? So many layers, they look like old-fashioned Christmas sweets, swirled hard candy that you want to pick out, pop in your mouth and suck.
You know they’d be good. White blue, light blue, bright blue, night blue, and flecks of I-See-You, orbited dual black holes; his eyes made us think of the vastness of the universe. His name was Joe.
We talked and talked, over our lattés dulcet. We talked about the rain in Spain. We talked about monochrome streets and local beats. We talked about sugar bowls and liquid souls. We talked about lotions and potions and the notions of grandeur that hit you on twinkle-light nights in the midst of a crowd. Drunk.
We talked about cloves and curbing memories that don’t run so good anymore. We talked about beans, dreams, teens and contemporary, alternative scenes — practical practice, an actress named Julie…Something. We talked about the loneliness of forever…
…and, last but not least, we talked about love.
“Do you like to dance?” he asked.
We did indeed.
Darkness had come sniffing. It settled down upon the city, fat and heavy, meaty with a cellulitic stickiness. The darkness smelled of cigarettes and semen. We walked.
He told us he had to leave soon. We told him we only had a few, too. The lock on his door clicked, “Home,” when he turned the key. His apartment had all the necessary accoutrements: wooden floors that squeaked, dust, a crooked picture, a baseball bat, a kitchen, a toilet, a coaster and a bed. We danced. We loved.
Soft supplicity, moving together as one, bodies form-fitted by design, we loved. Our skin opalesced. Blushing fervor cast to forever, sacrificed to memory. Together, we knew, we knew this was our first and our last. We danced and danced and loved and loved. We whispered to one another of things human and ecumenical.
It began in our limbs. We felt it first between fingers and toes, the crystallized caramel crunch. Bits flaking. How wrong to subject him to our chrysalis. How wrong. We rose to go.
He said no. Just one more dance. A sash at each wrist, tied to the chair. He meant no. Our bindings carried no pain, in and of themselves. The pain came with the creeping split and rearrange of body. He watched as we shouted black icicles up at Heaven. He watched as we cried. He watched as we died. He watched through his whirlpool eyes.
God will come for us. We warned him.
No. He said no. His fingers explored the tumors and caverns of our once-flesh. He picked away flakes of calcification. Bold. He had no fear of our rearrangement. Circling, circling, he walked around us and around and around. No. God will not come. No.
Love, he whispered. Love. Nothing more eternal, nothing more powerful. Love. I’ve loved you forever, he whispered. Forever.
Our structure shook. Fragile form caught in the midst of transformation. Tonight we die. Tonight we….
No. Love. Forever. Mine. His voice licked at our soul. Love forever mine.
Wings tremble, flutter inside their prison of stilled corpus. Chin lifts; eyes seek God. We remember. God. We know. God sang it to us. Hallelujah. Rise. We are. God. Break the shell and rise, Blessed Host. Tonight we….
No. Whispers, his, of loneliness and flame and the darkness that smells of cigarettes and semen and brimstone. Beauty. Mine. Sweet. Cherished. Love forever mine. Forever. God will not come here.
God sang us to sleep that last night.