Dear God of Her Smile,
the same god as the bend in her elbow, the same god of the lines in her palms when they slip into mine on Sundays: here is the church, here is the steeple.

Dear God of Her Smile,
the same as the God of Her Eyes When she Talked About Telescopes and the Color Blue.

Dear God of her smile,
you are now now the god of everything she left behind. God of half-used lipstick. God of rotting vegetables. God of bedpost inscriptions. God of aging tattoos. You must have known that already. It’s the reason I pray to you so often, though less as time goes on.

Dear God of Her Smile,
I have worshipped so many others before you, Gods of other smiles. They were false gods. I am sorry. I pray that you forgive me. I pray that you will forgive me when I find and worship new false gods.

Dear God of Her Smile,
You are now the God of the Carpet I haven’t vacuumed in too long for fear of losing her final footsteps, the indentations marking her exit out the door.  Her worship of the God of Maps was stronger than my worship of you. Now, floor continues to gather dirt. It is disgusting. I know this. You made me this way.

Dear God of Her Smile,
You are now the God of my left hand. It’s earthquakes my fault lines. Lines such as “I should have known better; I should have stopped her; I shouldn’t have started.” You are now the God of Mouthfuls, God of Barbed-Wire Clawing Down My Throat.

Dear God of Her Smile,
I no longer believe in you. You can stop existing now.

Amen.

 

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