Love, I don’t
know what to do
with you—we sit
at a table, me and
you, and I examine
your face and hands
like a child who I
once knew, but then
grew up.
I’m trying to
decide whether
I want to rent
out one of my
brain-rooms
to you, just in
case I’ll need
you to entertain
the love of
someone else.
I mean, you’re
under my roof every
day—whether I
like it or not—so
why shouldn’t I
house you in my
thoughts long-term?
But love, it
bothers me how
you always want
me to pay attention
to you like some
god, but you’re
not—I worship
you unwillingly
and habitually.
When did I let
myself become
so attached to
the way you
smile and wink
at me? I should
have walked out
of that bar, and
gone home and
prayed—but I
choose to flirt
with the dreams
you made for me.
Love, I don’t
hate you, but
I wish you
would stop
acting like you
can fix my
loneliness, when
we both know
all the kisses in
the world can’t
replace my God.
I’m sending
you on a vacation,
and when you’re
ready to be patient
and holy, then
come back.
Instead, kneel
behind me at
the altar of Christ
and make yourself
His servant—be His
bride, and you will
be requited by the
one who made you.