This love letter begins / to Adam, from your ribs / so-called intelligent design / without you, I would die
—Jensen McRae, Adam's Ribs

He is half of my soul, as the poets say. He will be dead soon, and his honor is all that will remain.

Went looking for a creation myth /
Ended up with a pair of cracked lips
—Phoebe Bridgers, I Know the End