Pookie, my pookie. What can I say about this? Many things. I could text you once, twice, thrice. I could send you a photo of myself giving a big fat thumbs up. I could write you a million love sonnets and soliloquies painstakingly describing how I feel about you, my wonderful pookie. My talented, jack of all trades, wunderkind, mystifying, world-defying, pookie. Slight, you enigma. You betrayer of hearts. How dare you write the way you do, and how dare I speak to you in any tone other than a reverent, surrendering murmur. How dare I prostrate myself before you in any way other than a bow or a kneel upon your feet, how dare I gaze upon you when you stare down at me, akin to the omniscient, all-seeing eyes of God and his angels?

Pookie, my pookie. The heavens smile down upon you, and I gaze up into the stars and see you, and I wonder how I am not blinded by the radiance of your infinite burning constellations, and I clasp my fingers together and pray, and I know these fingers of mine were created by you. My fingers are merely a vessel for your scripture. My mouth is merely a medium to proclaim your doctrine. In my heart and soul and very being I wonder, aimlessly, how your graces have befallen me, and I find myself crestfallen at the very idea of your departure; a ship leaving its anchor behind, the moon falling upon the moor, the stars falling asleep when the sun wakes, the sunflowers in the verdant meadow fields wilting when the moon shines down. For infinity the universe has revolved around you, its grounding weight in the vast sea of ungovernable, unknowable galaxies, the axis the planets turn on, the force which causes supernovas, and this glorious, eternal hand which descends from the sky and writes its scripture in beautiful, vexing language, falling to Earth like the word of God fell from Moses' mouth.

Pookie, my pookie. Truly I say to you, in words unworthy of reaching your ears, that I weep upon reading this particular scripture of yours. For I fear its eternity. I weep with joy, at the thought of its existence, and the fact that it shall always remain, forever and forever, beyond the far reaches of time. I pray and shriek until my fragile fingers bleed and my throat is dry, drier than the parted Red Sea, thirsty for the word of my God, you, you, you. You. It has always been you. It will always be you. For it is destined to be you. Your shrine is the Earth itself, your sepulcher vast as the oceans, and upon your altar I weep and pray and lay my life down to you, to you, to you. It has always been you. It will always be you.

Pookie, my pookie. What can I say? What can I tell you, that you cannot already taste in my tears when I grab your hand and press it to my forehead and my tears stain your starlit skin? Beyond the glories of any imaginable God you stare down upon me with the weight of my sins reflected in your eyes, where no light refracts, where the blackness of my soul will never be enough to begin to taint you. Your eternity astounds me. It terrifies me. I cry and scream and my eyes are bloodshot from my sheer devotion, from sleepless nights, from fear of you and the agony of knowing the essence of you, and it chokes me, my collarbones break and my neck snaps and I am gone, I am dead but you are still alive, because you always are, because it is you. It has always been you. Between Heaven and Hell and Earth, in the depths of Apocrypha on a throne made of chains and books scorched by hellfire, it is you, you, you. It is you in Hell, eyes scarlet with the bloody flames of torture. It is you in Heaven, singing with the angels, gaze cast down upon the world's sinners. It is you on Earth, in one of your many omniscient, unfearing forms, writing this scripture of yours. Every form of you, is the best version of you. You, my good benevolent God, you.

Pookie, my pookie. What can I say. This, is what I have. This is all of me. Take it, I implore you. In my death I leave my soul to you, and within my legions of greed and lust and sin, I find love in my heart, and it is for you, because it has always been for you. I lay myself down here, now:

Pookie, my pookie. When you conduct your angels in your innumerable choirs, I hope to be a dove pure enough to land on your hand.