Jeremiah 41: http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt1141.htm

It shouldn't matter that they killed him in a mountain, or that his blood trickled down a spot of mud, between the sheaves of grass, or leaves of grass, or kisses of wheat. It shouldn't matter that his blonde curls unfurled against purple petals, or that he never had blonde curls, or that the mountains never ascended from the valley. It shouldn't matter that our love died between my breasts, or that you came between my thighs.

When I think of your voice, whispering  "I like it when I come inside you", I shouldn't blame myself for letting you in and unfurling my petals. Is it my fault that in my desire to blossom, I mistook your words for rain, your bites for kisses?

Gedalia's corpse lay unburied; soon, his dust was forgotten beneath marching feet, but I can not forget, even when I am afraid to remember. They say that remembrance is the lot of our people, and every year, we hold a fast titled in his name, but I can not drown out your face with the taste of hamburgers.

I might pray to God, like the pilgrims who came, bearing frankincense - something I imagine smells slightly like your aftershave. But how can I pray for that which I can not hold? You molded my clay in your image, yet you found the reflection displeasing.

It shouldn't matter. But it does: So two thousand years later, I read it in a book, and try to refrain from whispering your name in the dark. I don't think you ever said my name while you were inside me; to do so would be to claim me - the you inside of me, the me inside of you - I was never phased by the Biblical phrase "And Adam knew Eve": What deeper way is there to know someone, than to feel their body inside you?

After the first prophecy, Moses and God shared a cigarette. You and I shared a slice of pizza - no toppings. You were a purist at the temple of love, and I should have known better than to get involved with a fanatic - but damn, you looked sexy when you were unfurling your banner. Don't ask me, what was the cause.  As long as you kept on watering my petals, that didn't matter.

You've sewn the grain - now pick your fucking flower.