There’s nothing I pray to consistently.
I chanted with my Buddhist friend the other day.
Still, not sure if I was doing it right.
I tripped on the words and my tongue felt foreign in my mouth.
The only times I’ve asked for help have been in hospitals when he sat there dying.
I thought, worth a shot.
And I believed it if it meant I got another year, or two, or 10 with him.
Didn’t work. Sometimes when it’s really bad,
I wonder if it’s about God
or a God punishing my non-believing ass.
And then, my friend who has never missed a day of church
talks of her dead mother and I remember
shit just happens.
To blame faith is like blaming
Not everything is a plan. There is life and there is death.
It sounds poetic, sure, but it’s not. It’s fact.
But reality does not take into account pain or grief
or trying to navigate the rest of my adulthood without ever asking my dad
a goddamn thing again.
The thing is,
you understood that.
Our losses, the same. But different, of course. Always.
An exchange of messages thankful that someone
got it. Finally
someone got it.
I was in love with you long before I was allowed to admit it.
We played therapist to one another.
You called me and I answered.
You know, I never answer phone calls.
That summer we clung to each other like lifeboats
and neither of us could swim, but god, how we tried.
How we found salvation in someone who got it.
In someone who didn’t need it explained.
In someone we didn’t need to tip toe around.
Six months later, when we got together,
I told my mom I was going to marry you.
In the hardest nights, I still tell her that.
you’re the only one who ever got me.
You’re the only one I never had to
pretend in front of.