Who needs heaven when there are city apartments
with black blankets that smell like you,
kitchen windows the sun slips through,
limbs to cross, sweatshirts to borrow,
and hair to kiss?
Who needs prayer when you can send love
in a text message, instead of a goodbye,
by sitting in the room when I start to cry,
or by driving to the cloudy mountains
of New Hampshire and North Carolina?
I don’t need God when hands as small as mine
fit in hands as big as yours, black and white.
I find you in the doorways of my longest nights,
nights that don’t come around much anymore because with you
I am tall enough to touch the moon.
Jennifer Cox is a Boston-based writer who is working on an apocalypse novel. She is the editor-in-chief of Pocket Change Magazine.