In Your Arms

Believe it or not, I used to pray.

I used to lay in bed under weekend quilts, in a room that was not mine.

I would place my hand on things, bandages.

Salty pillow case wet with a child’s hurt and confusion.

Blue light reflecting from the boombox.

The same songs I listen to now.

Because I remember when.

When I believed.

I prayed.

I prayed hard.

I prayed often.

He never heard me.

So when he appeared he scared me.

When I stopped praying, I stopped remembering.

I forgot what I’d asked for.

Dreamed of.

Needed.

He doesn’t hold me he holds on.

Part of him knows that I’m not all here.

The best parts of her floating away.

He holds tight and I nuzzle deeper.

In the thick of his scent

I think,

“I could die in your arms right now and it would be perfect.”

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