In this poem,

The name of my crush has been redacted

And replaced with the word "god":

 

God,

you’re hot

But that’s another poem.

 

God,

let me write poems about you. 

It's happened before, where

I write poems about feelings I've never met 

like fantasy is

The One who can fix me, with

prayer beads worn tight around my left ring finger.

This is not the first poem I've written about love

and it's not the first poem I've written about worship,

holding the ink of silhouetted name to my chest like 

an echo, or a request, or a prayer, or, 

this is not the first poem I've written on you 

but this is the first poem I've liked since I've seen your smile. 

It's the first poem where I can cross something 

other than my fingers on my heart.

this is nothing to snap at

but when I say your name, 

its the poem I have been purging for years-

 

I am a poet

and what do I know best? if not love

since poets make it easy. 

we sell love as a drug, laced with easy vowels 

and heavy pauses, 

place love on the tongue of an audience to 

hook them in 

we write about love like we own it

and it is so easy for me to understand why 

but, God, 

I see you and I shut down 

the crash makes me human

the poem turns into poetry

 

God, I'm tired of reading your lips 

when you speak to me in hallways.

I have no confessions to make. 

there are no apologies here,

I offer you only gratitude

like a child wrapped in its own  

existence as

an offering, 

 

God, 

lead me to where I am unafraid 

of all the love you can give me. 

if we are to talk about love languages, 

then I am being flung off the tower of babel

in all five directions

I know it is difficult to touch a woman 

without seeing her body 

but

we've made a guessing game out of 

eyebrows. 

hands, feet, 

all the limbs that can move are hidden 

behind our mouths, 

God, I've deified you 

because I have trouble opening my mouth 

for a man who already knows 

what I want to say, 

but you always crinkle your eyes

ask me to repeat myself?

 

our first day, 

you asked me a question, but 

creation is not that easy.

As both artist and art, 

poets know that creation means

big bang and God become lovers 

creation means there is never a finale, 

only atoms being converted into final breath-

it is complicated to create,

so I deflected.

and God,

I’m sorry for being so mean 

every time we talk 

sometimes I like to pretend 

that you can’t see through my answers 

when I hand them to you. 

keep them.

they are all yours. 

God, tonight 

was the happiest I’ve been all week. 

and isn’t that a metaphor? 

I couldn't read your lips in the dark

but I could feel your shoulders, Atlas, 

isn’t that a metaphor?

if you are to be a poem personified, 

then be the one where I fall in love 

with the meaning instead of the words: 

 

Perseus, 

you make me feel less like a monster 

more like I have someone to smile up at. 

tell me I am human enough to love

 

Jesus, tell me I'm good enough to die for 

pray back to me sometimes.

let me know it’s OK to laugh at parables

 

Ramses, let me part the waters 

to find you there 

waiting for me to make a miracle

 

beloved, 

love,

each question is a miracle

 

Lord, you make me wanna do stupid things

like wear your name

across my chest, as a necklace 

or a tattoo 

or fingers crossed 

in the hopes that I walk into work 

and you’ll see it one day 

and know that I love you 

even though I haven’t known you very long

 

Love, I hope you know 

that I am making wine out of water 

I am getting drunk off of

next to nothing 

falling in love 

off of silent glances

Love is still worthy of worship

even if the big bang was just a crash, or a crush,

God-

mother says be wary of man 

but you are nothing like my father

And that’s a blessing

I think- 

she means to be wary of men

who think they have too much power,

a God complex, even, so 

***,

mother always said salvation would feel like this

I never expected it to be

like little raptures in your stomach,

a million butterflies going back home 

to the heaven we spoke up in poems

 

***, let me go home to you.

I want to paint genesis on each wall. 

whether it takes years or only three days,

tell me you’re still waiting for me

after sunday afternoon, 

when all our friends are drunk on good wine. 

***, I want to see you on the weekends.