I have no regard for the late hour; I wake him up.
Our hearts pull us down the stairs.
We read of her experience
And our once exuberant hearts
Now sit broken in the
Bottom of our souls.
We ponder words to send
Across the globe.
How can we comfort
Such an afflicted heart?
We cannot.
Only He can.
We type Scripture.
It is our only solace.

Why is He jealous for you?* Mrs. Fields asks me.
I have no reply.
I blink and water the flower absentmindedly drawn on my notes.
He is jealous for you because you are His.
My flower drowns.

Every book has one,
The evidence--printed on its spine.
Even so, it attempts to move around the library,
Unable to, for it has no legs to stand on.
Claiming false categorization,
Longing to be shelved alongside memoirs, autobiographies.
Mutating entirely to a chapter of loathing
When separated from its One.

ABC.
These have little worth compared
To their homonym.