Throwing stones
at your window, whispering
Let me inside your brain
I want to see if fireworks go off
every time we hold each other's
gaze a little bit
too long

And you do it so well--
making me feel like I am
dancing on quicksand;
I can't seem to pull myself up
(or I don't want to)

How do you make
every single thing move
in slow motion?
You walk into the church
in your Sunday dress
and the angels lose their minds.

I pray
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned
and I think I am about to sin again
because
we are only a few inches away
from touching
and I can hear you humming
Danse Macabre
while smothering a grin
and god,
I am so tired and
so yours.