Perhaps God forgives me when the words won’t stop, perhaps she is inside them and that is how she looks out for me. Perhaps God is not really a thing, which would make so much violence in every corner of the globe disappear. She was soft like rain sliding warm from a young green sapling, dripping sweet innocence, bent at supple knee. With hand outstretched, reaching for the moon in hooded seclusion, a sliver of silvery light cuts her face into pieces which scatter out across the open sea. She is one million reflections of pain, lust, forgiveness, creation, destruction, wet blood of birth, brittle bone of death, flashing on dark water. She walks alone in all of her stories. She is the forest and the wolf. The human heart knows not of distance only depth, and the more that you touch her the farther she fades so you take a deep breath, and you take a step back. Love is a delicate cloth. She is small enough that you fold her under your palm and bring her with you everywhere. When she flutters against your rib cage you are made to sing. Little angel, little nymph. I have seen you dance before, I have heard your music in hollow halls past midnight, as lamplight accompanies the stranger. In your tremble, the cry of all wounded souls. The whites of your eyes carry a lost man home.