I. You
Aimlessly wandering this sphere of a world,
seeing it only in black and white like an old television -
soundless and dull.
The radio is spewing nothing but bad news;
in the evening comes the skull-cracking static.

You.
A non-believer, a heretic.


II. Her
Bellissima.
The fairest of them all.
A winged one; glowing.
Her soft fingers brushing against your face
makes you feel like a canvass carefully being painted on.
Her scent - daisies and safety.
Odd, but you are more than content.

III. You*
Aimlessly wandering this sphere of a world
have her palms as a map now and her face
as a guide to not be lost again.
The world sings more beautifully and every single thing is ethereal.
There is no more static.

You.
A non-believer, a heretic,
now knows how to say grace.