His eyes look like they can be scooped out of their sockets and replaced at will; aqueous humour so stabilized it’s almost surreal, – like a painting too well done. I’m tempted to touch them, just to be sure he’s real, but I know better.
His jet black hair has gathered in uneven knots, as if it were goat turd. But if goat turd looked this good even I would gobble them up. His lips are formed as though he slid the lower half of love in his mouth. He must be saving some love for his generation.
And look! Look at that eye brow! Is that not perfection? Is he not perfection?
Look at God looking up to give you further proof of his existence. How can you still not believe?
But God is hungry. He drank a cup of home made porridge this morning, it’s two hours past noon and that stick of meat you’re holding looks really good.
He stretches out his tiny hands and demands, “give me”
Why do you still stare?