Part I · Illusion
Insomniac Psalms
June 30th, 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.