Insomniac Psalms

Jonathan Valania

June 31st, 2018

 

Humid air,

heavy as my eyes—

twelve cups deep

in bitter thoughts

and coffee stains.


Black jeans, cut-off tees—

not health-conscious,

just chasing a mirror’s mercy.


Guitar in my hands,

pulling, bending,

breaking chords.


Half-sung songs,

melodies wrapped in madness—

my only gospel

on the coffee shop patio.


You—

in a jean romper, messy bun—

locked eyes with a problem.

I’ve always been one.


You spoke of Jesus

like He answered.

I thought:

God doesn’t love problems.

And I’ve always been one.


Time froze.

You sang like salvation was simple.

I listened like a sinner—

unchosen, unclean—

but I aspired to be gospel.


And I—

I was the unfortunate psalm.

 

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First Date

 

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