like the boy that unstitched me did,
the lord isn't big on answering my questions.
the people around here
still
use their wonder asking why
i can't believe in him.

we've met at a tangent point,
and i doubt we'll reunite
in one of the four little white churches
down the road.

i heard him that one panicky-teared
night in October, under the full
moonlight, the wind rushing
between the spaces in the
trees, with shaky palms and knotted
hair and the frantic music of the pines.

a far away voice whispered:
you can't see the stars,
get out now before you're torn to shreds.

urging my faithlessness,
i closed my ears, curled my body
up
and felt the leaves crumble
under my weight.

he didn't offer his help again after that.
i still sewed myself together
alone
in the months after.

we haven't spoken since then.