Our second to last night is the only way to preamble our last night. For that’s on its way. It’s in the post. Nothing surer. And so I’m just pulsing away here. Waiting. A man naked, simmering in his own heartsoup. I can hear cockroaches scurrying among the dirty dishes in the kitchen. The floor comes up to meet me ever so lovingly. The night is cold against my back, like a beautiful French actress’s voice as an amplified church whisper, a muffled hymn. She tries ever so hard to hold her voice to a secret; I try to keep my will to create as quiet. And we go together like that, singing into our final union.

A drunken song to God.