The Unnamed Gods of Morning
I do not pray.
But every morning,
I speak to the god of routine.
He lives in the curve of the cup handle,
the silence before the first email,
the steam
that curls like a secret
from my mug.
My desk is a shrine—
the plant I won’t name,
the notes I won’t read,
the longing I won’t say.
If I believed in God,
I would beg him
to make you real,
or to make me less so.
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