thegospelofjudasdarc:

Love Letters from the Post-Apocalypse

Yisara’el,

How I have missed you! I don’t know what else to write—to say—the days have less luster, my life less reason to be without you orbiting my universe.

Time moves differently now.

The air sticks and stinks like honey too long left in the sun. You are my doppelganger in the repeats of my dreams. How I long for a relic from you! A bone from which to build my altar.

What else is there to say? I miss you!

I miss you as the wick misses the flame—as desire misses the dwelling of moss-oiled eyes. The serene surface of my mirrored face has morphed into the bold mimic of you—the sky has turned to currents and shimmers of wormholes eating time. It has turned to the rolling waves of the ocean I used to fear but now beg to take me.

I don’t want to go on without you.

I want to nest in your exposed ribs.

Say you’ll make a home for me? Have you already?

I want to kill the brightness you have planted in me—your eyes, I want, to watch from behind the pale glass. How many mornings have I longed for you? Have you felt my absence as I have felt yours?

The birds only sing your name in a tongue understood by my love—you have become the background melody to all my daily striving, yearning, and movement.

I want to rebuild you in front of me—I want to bring you home. My heart wants to plant in the Earth of my grave and to call you Eternity.

Please say you’ll remember me.

Please say you miss me too.

Grant me a place in the marrow of your bones.

—

Yisara’el,

I suppose you have more than enough reasons to send me on my way; did you know the nuclear sky reminds me of the winter of your teeth?

These days my bones look a lot like yours and I’m clattering down the dirt road near your rectory—somewhere I am hoping to bring you forth by the rising dandelions—I’ve collected many things in the shape of you.

I miss watching you and your gentle way of resting.

It has been so long—I write the same things over and over and I have developed graphomania looking for your hands in the movement of mine.  Everything echoes of you.

I’d like to think I made some kind of impression. I like to think that in the crooked line I catch myself humming I have entrapped parts of you.

Oh what a cunning boy you are!—I think I’ll eat your heart first and perhaps that will provide the nourishment I need to heal perpetual wounds—

I read us in the pages of every strange love story—sometimes the sun is between my eyelashes and I think of how you touched me—like steam from a hot cup of tea.

I find you staring at me from the water that cradles me in the evening.

And I know you will always be waiting like a road that grows ivy, but the path remains—my back carries the same steps to Christ as you and it aches across the distance—my fear and desperation sent out like burning lamp in an empty dark field; in the heaviness of storm pregnant skies.

I eat of your words—I want to break you open like a pomegranate beneath Mother Moon and find only the seeds of truth.

Like a lemon branch grows on any citrus tree, I have attached to you—the thing made of the same as me.

The orange is naked and peeled of the outer puckered skin and I cannot eat it in it’s beauty—I have the same dream about you.

—

Yisara’el,

I am still thinking about you this morning—that is nothing new, in truth, all things have reminded me of you for quite some time now.

I wish I could pray beside you—even for a just a few minutes.

Your presence was a magical kind of way—a road through the middle of the desert, and in my isolation, I found you as water in the surprise greenery; all my days pass as tombstones and crosses along the path.

I did not mean to become so morbid. But such is what my thoughts have become—I see your face upon the crucifix. You are the holy weight upon my chest—you are the need of God’s blessings.

How are you holding up?

Have the fires consumed you too?

I wonder about your loneliness–especially when the sun first greets me.

Do you ache? Have your bones turned against you too?

I think about God a lot these days and how He must look a lot like you—what does God dream about? Does He know the colors He appears as in my visions?

I miss you. I told you that.

Maybe I’m just a shadow lingering a little too long—

do you know what you are meant for?

Life has been a constant blur from the moment it called you elsewhere. I can see your white fingers gripping my throat. I wish you would’ve killed me! Sorry—that was probably wrong of me to say.

—

Yisara’el,

I cannot continue.

However, I must—there is both nothing more and complete galaxies between us and to be said. I am still debating sending this to you.

The sky closes, but the rain remains.

Can I come home—will you put a good word the Father? Tell Him, you, His son, have released me from destiny and obligation. I don’t know what I’m trying to ask you or tell you or what I’m hoping to achieve—some sense of closeness I suppose.

I know who you are.

I know what you are asking me to do.

But why does the world deserve to be saved?