by now my cup would have been filled
with the grace you sing to my name
and how you string sentences together;
letter by letter, thought by thought.

tell me, what does your mind sing
whenever we read the same page of poetry
or listen to the same songs over and over
that they seem to be a dull buzz

a static, a background noise
a façade for something,

                   (dare i say a tryst?)

or would fate call that too early?

but by now, i'd listen to you
speaking my name like a prayer.
maybe for once
i will believe in religion

as long as you're the one

                             preaching.