When I Pray

How would I touch you.

I would look first.

With my entire existence.

I’d grab time, make it pass slowly between my fingers, stretch its cells into sweet nothings. I’d glance at you, then stare, just one step closer. I’d take your hand to know you’re real.

You’re infuriating — impossible to tease, impossible to provoke. When I close my eyes, it’s a void. But also warmth. Endless.

And still, somehow, it’s infuriating. How many more spells do I need to summon you?

Your hand — I’d push it against me. There’s famine, despair, settled on my skin like dust.

Rouse me, please. I can’t focus. Your palms on my cheeks — I lean into them. One entity against another. A border not to cross, but to merge. To shatter. The ink is dry. Rouse me, fingertips tracing the edge.

Where are we? Does it even matter? Space? The couch? Your lap. Your lap then.

My chest rising and falling like metronome swings.

The kiss? Paroles, paroles.

Imagination, possibilities — endless.

Fast, slow, hard, or slow. Maybe we’ll never know. Okay fine, I’m not mocking you. My cheeks against your thighs.

Not too fast. But faster than this.

What would you want? Where are your hands?

We stopped at the cheeks. Let’s continue.

Does it feel empty, or does it feel real? I can’t take from an empty well. And yet, you’re everything. When I close my eyes — and open them — it’s you. Not a salvation. Not a downfall. Just the only answer I know.

Would you want to know my thoughts? Is there ever enough? Or is this the only thing that makes you go insane? Because I fully am insane — talking to myself, looking out the window, checking my phone, praying.

When you pray, you don’t see a God. You don’t know if anyone’s listening. And I’m praying: please hold me, pull me closer, take this famine away.

We don’t even need to kiss. We can just look at each other. Breathe the same air. Relax into the couch, into each other. Silence. Chest up and down. Even with my eyes closed. Even if there’s nothing left.

How would I touch you.