i.

before him, i never believed in a higher power or
catharsis or purity or forgiveness, and truth
be told, i still don't believe in many of those things
but i sure as hell believe in being held, being loved.

with him, the closest i could get to a belief or a prayer
would be a stifled "oh god-" cut off by his lips, quick
and certain, destroying any faith before it could even
begin.

after him, i would lie in bed and shake and wish that i
could believe in something larger than myself, larger
than the sky or a star or how his thumb brushed against
my ear.


ii.

after he broke me, i
understood why some
people feel the need to
hold hands and to sing
and to cry.


iii.

i still sing anyway.


iv.

but then i met you:
and if i were religious (but i'm not) i could
almost say that finding you was like finding
god (but i won't) and that i whisper your name
like a prayer (it almost is) and i can read your
face intimately like some long-forgotten psalm
(but it's more beautiful.)

you aren't him, but it scares me that i can love
you just as well, and if i were religious (but i'm
not) i'd compare it the sun shining through a
stained glass window:

he was fragmented and lovely in the evening,
but he faded. now in the morning you burn me
something new, something bright and beautiful
and worth being thankful for.


v.

sometimes you call me your angel, and i
think that is as close to heaven as i will ever
come.


vi.

so if there is a god,
i would take the fact
that my head fits
so perfectly into
the curve of your
shoulder as proof
of his existence.


vii.

at church, they get down on their
knees and pray or stand up straight
and sing, glory be, glory be to god and
stained glass windows and sometimes,
watching the shadows cast by your
eyelashes, i am almost brought to my
knees in reverence.

(glory be,
glory be to god
and to your eyelashes
and hallelujah, amen.)