Sugar

There are some days we spend praying to god.
In our cubicles we ask for 5 o’clock,
at home we ask for our sons and daughters
to come back from the desert,
in our hearts we pray for fullness.
Some days we’re full of hope.
Our faith leaves us with so much hope
we don’t feel the fires behind us
scalding the bottoms of our feet as we run.
Sometimes, my faith makes me feel like a giant.
I reach up to grasp for the moon,
trying to hold the heat of the stars.

The last night I saw you
I may have mistook the strings of lights for stars
because your asymmetrical smile
looked like the crescent moon glowing bright
in the darkness of the room.
And like the giant from the fairytale
I thought I would come tumbling down
when all the strength left my knees,
traveled to my face
to work a smile across my face I couldn’t control.
Words tumbled from my tongue when you asked me
about something I can’t even remember.
I choked on commas and hm-ed
through a bottleneck traffic jam in my thoughts.

Later, I would swear I mentioned something about
a documentary I watched about sharks,
thinking you thought I was a lunatic with too much to say.
But now all I think about are
all the things I wanted to say that I didn’t.

I wanted to tell you
that every time you enter a room
the drums inside me beat a little faster.
That when you reach for me in a loud room
the blood cells rush through my body so fast
they carve your name like graffiti
on the walls of my veins.
When you first approached me that night
before you could even speak I should have described
the way the your lips are like a pomegranate.

I wanted to say that you remind me of sugar;
the kind you’d use to sweeten your bitter lemonade moments.

There was once I asked you,
“If you could be anything in the world what would you want to be?”
You said, “I’d want to be a wrecking ball.”
I laughed not believing you.
Not thinking you could ever have destruction on your lips
to turn someone’s creation into a memory.
But maybe you could.
Maybe your words could kill a man,
maybe your glance could paralyze a marathon runner.
I wouldn’t know.
I pray that I won’t have to.

Sometimes, I pray to the sunset
that the last few moments of day would bring you to me
so I could kiss your bright lips beneath the apricot sky.
When we’re alone
I hope the sound of your voice doesn’t resonate so loud in me
that you’ll hear the rattle
of skeletons knocking against my closet door.
There are nights I wish I could stay awake
to count the strands of your hair in the moonlight,
the way God does on his good days.

We have all had our heart broken once.
For some of us, maybe a few thousand times more.
We pray for some spiritual moment to come
to make the spaces between the ticking of the clock
not feel so empty.
If you hear those empty spaces one day, I hope
you’ll intercept my prayer,
think of me and some sweet-nothing about my voice,
my clumsiness, or my eyes
and maybe you won’t see me from so far away.

About Ry

It's so magical, it's gay.
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