When the sky is blue, I think of God
in a secret language which I speak only in my heart,

and the wound isn’t made out of light,
but from love. I am brave but not yet forgiven.

When God gave us language, he made us immortal.
I lie to people that I am a poet, the truth is

I am writing the same poem over and over
again—your name on every page.

I try to hold onto the shape of us,
the world keeps prying it away.

I should have known that God isn’t in the books
they translate, in the buildings made out

of false promises, he is in us.
And there is a dream I don’t tell anyone about where

I have a love that doesn’t feel like it burns
when I hold it in my arms.