On the eight day,
God was so tired that he fell into a deep sleep,
saw you in a dream, and when he woke,
he scrambled wildly for paper and pen
as the image of you faded
from the pink walls of his eyelids.
You don’t believe in God; you say things like:
“I am breathless about the spinning atoms of you.”
“Let’s become scientists with curious hands.”
“I want to melt you down to your chemical compositions.”
“Baby, I like the way you look tonight, why don’t you
slip out of those molecules and dissolve with me?”
I thought I could change you.
I thought I could touch you and make you a believer,
but instead I fell in love with your ferocious hunger for
knowledge, the immense awe you hold for every blade
of grass, or grain of sand — it reminds me of worship.
There’s something so unmistakably holy about it.
I recite psalms when I’m afraid, and you whisper
equations under your breath until they sound
like scripture. This is how we pray.
You’re always trying to fit the pieces together,
always making incisions in the soft underbelly of life
to study and dissect its coiled organs, always trying to
bury the uncertainty. Am I wrong for finding you lovely?
Am I wrong for seeing the beauty in your blasphemy,
the grace in your godlessness?
I’m not like you. I don’t need to understand,
or make it all mean something. I don’t want
all the answers. I don’t want to spoil the mystery,
so I will leave you untouched, the science of you
vast and unexplored. Please, do not tell me how
this ends. I don’t want to know.
Let’s leave the questions unanswered
and problems unsolved for now. I’m not interested
in the mechanics or the math of it. I’m not looking
for a method. I only want your madness—
majestic, divine — all on its own.