John the revelator

at the party playing bible dress ups I am drinking from another paper cup. I meet friends of my friends and listen to their stories. wrapped in bedsheets as a stranger I play present in dim lighting: a gospel writer asking questions, showing interest, pretending he is really there. I meet the heartache of the writer, knowing more than I should, trying to see what he sees without giving it away. we laugh about movies and types we won't agree on. he fauns and I'd find it beautiful if not for seeing too much of myself.

you couldn't come because of other plans, though you say you've always wanted to wear a toga. your other plans play out without you. I think of you: sick at home, harbouring something I'd kill to take and bear myself instead, keeping quiet, much less tender than before. I take a photo in the mirror just in case you want to see me. the sheet is soft against my skin and would look beautiful on you. but you're not here and won't make sense. I take a knee and pray for reason. I am the author of end of days.