I want a living being to cleanse me. I want to be baptized while looking in the eyes of my perfect lover. I want this lover to hover a halo around my lost head by day and fuck me brutally with a crucifix when dusk hits. I want a lover to know what life looked like before christ. I want them to share their theories of what these cities will sing after he has left for hours on end as we sit in the darkness of an empty room lighting american spirits one after another. I want a fatalistic lover. I want a lover who I can go to cleanse myself instead of god who isn’t afraid of muddy feet and bruised knees. I want to find solace in not childhood memory, Bukowski, or Kafka but in this lover. I want a lover who was made in the image of god because I was not.