I cannot write about you,
Because you don't matter.
Your presence smudged across my
Pale forehead
Like the faint Thursday morning remnants
Of a lopsided cross
Painted on by a solemn parish member.
I cannot write about you,
Because you were never there.
Your words landed
Soft and heavy,
Dissolving upon my tongue
Like thin, crisp flakes
Of communion
Placed into eager outstretched hands
And wide, gaping mouths.
I cannot write about you,
Because you didn't see me.
My half whispered laments of
Despair and something close to
Heartache, burnt out
And sizzled
Amidst the constant wavering glow
Of a hundred uniform candles.
I cannot write about you,
Because there's nothing to say
That can express the emotion
Or lack thereof
That comes with closure.
The tall, ornate cathedral walls
Hold fast amidst the winds of time.
A testament to an old religion,
Forgotten and misused
By it's devoted and deluded deciples,
Who drag their weary feet
Up the tall, crumbling
Stone and frankincense stairs,
Yearning for something
More than what this poor,
Decrepit world can
Offer to their deprived hands,
Stretched out to the kingdom of God
In desperate reverence.
I cannot write about you,
Because there's nothing to say.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see.
