He asks me what I believe in, and I have no response.
The meaning behind my dreams, the Big Bang Theory, the curve of his spine.
I’m no longer religious.
In his eyes I find God
I make him a collage, and he keeps it. That’s who we are. I have things to give. He takes care to hold onto them.
He is holy. I pray.
On the edge of my bed, I worship him.
I find more in the litany of his laughter. I hear the voice of others, and it haunts me. I spend my nights trying to untangle his chuckles.
He holds me. I learn the weight of his body. I learn the size of his sighs. I am short of breath.
There is hazy tension. We unlearn the feel of each other's fingers just to study one another’s hands each night.

He loves Blink-182. He has a birthmark on his neck shaped like a water droplet on a sunny day.
He’s warm. He eats yogurt at hours nobody else does. He pretends to hate poetry.
He loves the lines I leave for him. He knows how to stay but prefers to go.
He says the right things. He means them. He loves raspberries. He believes in new beginnings.

He’ll be gone soon and so will I.
In time we will lose each other, and I’ll try to find him again everywhere.
He’s an ant, I’m the wind,
I’ll be religious again.
He asks me what I pray for, and I have no response