We found a hill on the Fourth of July, where we could watch the fireworks paint the sky. One thousand barbeques with bottle-rockets and roman-candles, one million sparks of different colored light. Inside our brains, chemicals combined. I felt your breath on my neck as you let out a sigh.
What if God is a tangerine? Peeled by your fingers and dripping sticky sweet. Running down your chin and onto your hands, as you sink into its flesh with your front teeth.
We left the party on a warm summer's night, and drove with our friends to the lake nearby. Without any clothes, we waded into the darkness, but I could still see your body glow beneath the surface.
Maybe God is a measurement of coincidence: The improbability of what is. The moonlight reflected on your naked skin, shuddering through my every synapse.
Just because it's beautiful, doesn't mean it makes any sense.