Take me to church
and show me God
the way you see Him.
Show me His eyes in the flickering lights
and your faith in His words.
How they lift you up when you have fallen
and the way they dry your tear-stained cheeks,
filling you with the breaths of tomorrow.

Show me the stars,
and the constellations
your uncle taught you as a kid.
And show me the blackness behind them
that grows as you look upon it.
Falling onto you,
crushing you,
and show me how you wake yourself up.

Teach me your songs.
The ones you sing in the shower.
The ones you sing when you aren’t trying.
The ones that play in your mind
when you’re flying,
when you’re broken,
when you’re looking at the earth,
when you’re looking at me.

Draw me a map
of your those homes and those places
that you think of when you don’t feel whole.
The paths you walk in your mind.
The footsteps you refill over and over again
when you can’t bring yourself to make new ones,
when everything else seems far away
and cloudy when it’s right in front of you.

Feed me your food
that smells like Christmas,
or tastes like July.
The food that brings you back to a worn couch
and the smells of melting butter.
The food that makes you forget
the pain you feel in your heart,
and replaces it with the warmth on your tongue.

Read me the stories
that you couldn’t have written yourself,
but somehow say exactly what you would have.
And no matter how long it’s been since you’ve read them,
you can feel the pages between your fingers.
And the words dance through your teeth,
telling your stories
without ever saying your name.