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.