They call me a sceptic, and she the faithful. But if there’s one thing I truly know and trust, it’s this:
She prays for you.
Every night she scrapes her knees on rock-salts begging Him to bring you home to her. Distance notwithstanding – your blizzard heart safely anchored to her shipwrecked bones.
And I can smell it on her pillowcase – the tear stains, the blood of all the men who would have willingly sacrificed their heads just to bring you back to the nest of her bed.
She offers you her lips and you take it. She offers you herself, still, she gives it in full, and you’d rather be crucified than exchange her for thirty pieces of silver.
She prays for you to a God she believes in. And she loves you even when you’re all holier-than-thou, she loves you despite the first, the second, the third temptations.
Me? I pray, yeah. I pray for her to a god I don’t know I believe in anymore. Psalms of mercy evaporating in the wind, traveling back to nowhere. Though I do believe in something –
I believe in the power of forgiveness when you confess your sins on her forehead. I believe in the blessing of your hand finding hers; always, always, always hers.
I believe in distance; I believe in fucking-up; I believe in drunk-dialed I love you’s and the miracle of her breathing the same time as you.
I believe when angels are bored they watch the story of you two coming together and play it on repeat. I believe Virgin Mary cries over the loss of another saint, but heaven knows for her, there is no other place safer than your arms; for her, your leather-jacket breath is paradise enough.
Okay, to be honest, no. I haven’t prayed to God in a long time, and I’ve lost faith in most things in life. But I do believe in something –
I believe in you and her.