Your gestures are flesh,
and you are beautiful
(richer than any language that I’ve ever heard).
And yet, when you actually talk,
you believe things that I can’t believe in.
(Are we really meant to be together?)
I wander into churches now
(because you do),
not like a demon
(because there are no such things)
but like something from outer space.
(In church I always have at least three arms.)
When others bow their heads,
when you bow yours,
I pray nothing happens,
and nothing does.
Except for an organ
and a lot of murmuring.
The stone makes things cool,
the glass makes things dark,
and I try to see what you see,
be what you are.
A loose sadness in the air;
because there are things now that are gone.
You wonder if I liked the service,
and I take your hands,
squeeze them.
Hope that they move while you are silent.
© 2015 Jody Azzouni