Those wrinkles, like dry riverbeds waiting for—longing for water. They were waiting to hold what they loved and were meant to protect.
And so he cried. He always gave you what you wanted. Tried to, anyway. Can’t please everyone—even when you’d really, really like to.
“If I was a statue, I’d be rusted.”
But you’re not, you’re a river. There were sounds everywhere, nothing resembling a river, though. Thonks, rhythmic, bounced from the walls. But he knew it was his heart, ready to jump from his chest.
Looked like an American picture of a man with thick skin, full of meat and ketchup.
When, in his last moments, he could have been thinking about family, past lovers… he thought of his meals.
Why was ketchup so red? Thick steaks, well-done, smothered in man-made blood with a taste that wasn’t even that satisfying…
He saw a man his last meal. The outline of the bone… the outline of a man.
Maybe it was Jesus, finding his way onto another plate.
Thing was, he was a little late.