He sits in a folding chair at the edge of the void, joints rolled from eviction notices and old love letters.
Didn’t build this world.
Won’t fix it either.
He’s the kind of god who answers your prayers with static. The one who once gave a damn but smoked through it.
You loved someone once?
He did too. A long time ago.
Her name was Collapse.
She wore fire and storm like a crown.
He rolled over one night and she was gone. Now he worships forgetting like it’s salvation.
He doesn’t cry.
He combusts.
And in that smoke, you might see your old self:
barefoot, dumb, hungry for love,
believing in poetry that didn’t rhyme
and people who didn’t stay.
His commandments?
Light it.
Love it.
Leave it.
He’s not a healer.
He’s a bad habit with a halo.
He’s that ex you still dream about when the weed hits too hard. The one who taught you heartbreak was a kind of prayer.
He doesn’t want followers.
He wants witnesses.
To watch the stars burn out one by one while you mutter your sins into a glass pipe.
Because meaning?
That was always your job.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
