When I said I’d stopped praying every night, 
I didn’t mean I’d stopped believing in God. 
I had only lost faith in being certain of anything I can’t
touch with my hands, and even that rule has exceptions.

Some nights keep me awake not knowing why
I’m here or what I’m to do with this body 
in such a strange world. I say “you’re welcome”
after “thank you” and “you too” after
“have a nice day,” I’m sure I’m meant 
to do that much, at least. 

I used to work for my hopeful run-ins with God,
sitting like a bus stop bench, opening doors and windows,
climbing cell phone towers so nothing could block my reception.
I had my letters addressed to post office waiting lines,
but he’d never swing by. He doesn’t use the front door,
has no concern for RSVPs.

Now, I save my faith for quiet places, the shade beneath cedars,
the first flash of sunrise through the windshield of morning
commutes, the space smaller than fingers can close when
measuring the gap between stars in the night sky.

In these moments, we walk, shoulder to shoulder, 
footprint the ground like a sandbox on the moon, 
trace “hello’s” in it for stargazers. It’s a comfort 
in everything happening, whether it be God, Allah, 
Buddha, or best wishes. It’s a faith in turning points
and constants. I can’t always find it and I struggle
to know who or what to name it, but it’s always there.

I can’t run my fingers through dusk, but I still feel 
that baked sky honey stick to every one of my knuckles
and paint my good intentions with it, all from a night
spent watching the sun drop beneath the horizon.

I have more doubts than I can plot on a map, but I still
keep moving, wherever all of this is taking me. I’ve believed
in children book fables, white lies, endless winters, 
and “I love you’s,” watched them all expose their fallacies,
and learned my lesson in not apologizing for either one of us.

My faith is in big hearts getting bigger, not forgetting
those hectic hives we can’t hush beneath our chests. 

God bless ‘em.