i don’t believe in magic.

the same way i don’t believe 

in love

or god

or decaf.

the same way i don’t believe

in myself, most days, or 

the steadiness of my fingers

before i reach the next line.

 

i am a nonbeliever who still sits in the pews

praying for miracles between clenched teeth.

i am a monument to the sanctity of sundays

weak after week after week.

reaching for god where the ghost of you stands.

i don’t believe in magic,

but i can still lie awake at 2:23

and pretend that somewhere across the fucking world 

you might be thinking of me too.

your hands might be in hers but not even a saint can resist

the temptations of pretending it’s in mine.

i don’t believe in magic and still 

there is a moment when he turns his head just right

and suddenly you’re there, just like the first time.