The Prayer
God, just one chance.
Give me one chance.
One person to love and to hold
and I swear I won’t let you down.
I swear, I’ll worship them
in a way even you’d envy.
Every day I’ll stare at them
as though they were your
most beautiful creation.
God, the poetry I’d write.
You couldn’t make enough paper
for me to fill with them.
No amount of ink for me
to bleed out would ever suffice.
I’d love them like writers love their pens;
like painters love colors;
like life loves pain, and pain loves life;
Like I love you.
And like you love me.
I’d hold them so tightly
that being held by anyone else isn’t enough
for the shape of my arms
is so deeply imprinted on their heart
that nothing but my arms may fit.
I would watch them night and day;
I’d look for the moon, sun, and stars
all in their face, like a madwoman.
Not as though they were a sculpture, but
as sculpted clay, in which
all their flaws mold perfectly into mine
and all of mine into theirs.
In a way only you could’ve aligned.
You’d look at us and know
only you could’ve created something like that.
So balanced, so perfect.
That’s what your creation is,
isn’t it? Perfect?
God, I swear, just one
chance to prove to you
that the love you put in me
I won’t let it go to waste.
One chance, I swear.
God, please, I won’t let you down.
I won’t let you down.
I won’t let you down.
The Love Letter
Dear lover, do you trust me?
Do you believe
that after the day is done,
when night has fallen and our path
is illuminated only by the moon;
when after we’ve changed
out of our clothes and hung up
our jackets in the closet;
that I will come back to you?
I don’t know if I would, lover,
because I am the person who would
take your hand
and hold it and warm it
between my own,
and walk through your—
our world, by your side.
See all your paintings,
smell your favorite flower,
taste a cup of coffee you made for me,
hear morning birds sing,
feel your heart throb.
And maybe, after some time,
I might leave, because
maybe, after some time,
you made me believe you
wanted your world
back for yourself.
But the second your front door closes,
you start to see
the exact shade of brown that my eyes are
in all of the paintings
around the living room.
Smell my perfume
in the flowers I got for the table.
Taste the sweetness in black coffee
like I snuck in a pinch of sugar
because it’s good for the soul.
Hear my voice every morning
when blackbirds wail
outside your bedroom window.
Maybe you’ll find a strand
of long, curly hair on your favorite jacket
while you do the laundry,
and you’ll beg for your heart
to stop beating
because I am not there
to feel it in your chest.
I will become your life
every waking moment of your day
and every sleepless second of your night.
And it may take some time,
all good things do.
But I will come back.
I’ll return to you because you see me.
Smell me, taste me, hear me,
feel me in your world.
So a part of me is there.
Left behind, because you
notice it every second of your life.
And I don’t intend to leave
that part of me behind.
I won’t hope that you
love me enough, lover,
to do the same to me,
since the only reason I’d ever leave
is because you already have.
So don’t be afraid,
I promise I’ll come back to our world,
and you’ll be able to
take my hand, dear lover—
do you trust me?
The Cricket Songs
“The only way I can
describe it, is idling
in a comfortable car.
It’s not a particularly large car,
but it’s just big enough for you.
There’s no driver.
The passenger seat is empty.
You’re sitting in the back so your view of
what’s ahead isn’t quite clear.
It’s raining outside, and the water
is making loud splattering noises
on the hood.
The car is off so sometimes
it gets a little cold.
The doors aren’t locked,
but there’s no umbrella in the car.
Still, the worst thing to happen
is that you’d get a little wet—
no big deal, water dries eventually.
There’s really no reason to stay.
But there’s no reason to leave either.
There’s crickets chirping
right outside the car.
They say crickets chirp more
when it’s warm outside.
It’s getting colder inside.
It makes complete sense to leave.
The idea of getting wet
doesn’t even bother you anymore.
You can’t understand the crickets
but you hear them.
They can’t understand you either.
You’re not sure if they hear you.
And just when you reach for the door,
the rain halts.
There’s really no point in leaving now.
So you stay in this
comfortable, albeit cold car
with the doors unlocked,
your view of the front unclear,
and crickets chirping outside.
And you leave the doors unlocked
in hopes that the driver might come back
and take you forward;
and if He doesn’t,
maybe, you hope,
someone might come and
occupy the passenger seat.”
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