Have Faith In Me, In You
You're a god when my pupils dilate, an atheist in my peripherals. I try to kiss every step you take, so you stretch out the mornings in bed to the afternoon. Sometimes, when I speak words of sugar and fill your ears with worship, I see a prayer ghost across your stare. I swallow thickly when you notice me looking, sand in my throat as those eyes set like the sun and rest on your hands, fidgeting.
I try to shower you with offerings, little gestures that could be mistaken as inconsequential. But you always hated gifts.
Sometimes you catch me singing love songs in the kitchen. I'd open my hand to you in a theatrical flare, blessed when the clouds opened up and I were blinded by your smile. But it would always falter, and I'd sing louder when I'd catch the disbelief. I'd try to chase the serrated thoughts out of your head and bring you in for a twirl – attempting to embody the entire choir you deserved while you smiled like it hurt.
I adore you. I a