I want to believe in your hypothetical gods and where they live, among lost socks
and found Tupperware lids and old keys to buildings that have been knocked down,
places in the pockets of history.
I want to believe in your flawed visions and muffled voices, echoes that cheat us
out of words and add vibrating blurs to our dreams,
places in the pockets of history.
One of these days, you will have to accept my sweaty palms and my shaky words.
One of these days, I will have to fall asleep on your shoulder and trust
that you know where you are driving, where land meets ocean, where we go to rest.
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