She is going to run me dry—
wring me out like Sunday linen,
hung in the sun,
fluttering with the ghost of who I used to be.
I, who scoffed at love
like a child does thunder,
calling it distant,
calling it drama.
I, now a fool,
naked in its downpour,
hands open, face turned skyward,
drinking it in like truth.
It has made me
into someone I swore I would never write about—
the kind who watches her breathe
as if it were scripture.
But God,
let me not twist You into the image of my ache.
Let me not wear my rage like priestly robes,
citing verses to excuse
what I must learn to unfeel.
May I not dip my jealousy
in holy ink
and call it devotion.
Let me not baptize my bitterness
or lay hands on my own cruelty
and call it love.
I want to love her
without the need to own the air around her.
To admire the wild
without fencing it in.
Teach me—
not with commandments,
but with moments:
the way her eyes curve when she's amused,
the softness of silence shared,
the miracle of her not being mine
but still being here.
I want to love her
better than I know how—
not with fear,
not with fire,
but with the steady, sacred thrum
of something whole.
This is no sermon,
but a psalm of unlearning.
A song sweet enough
to dissolve even the salt
I've carried too long in my mouth.
Or turn me into a pillar of salt.
Turning back to savour her sweetness.
