(a poem by Timothy J. Verret)
He doesn’t need me.
He needs air.
He needs my limp lungs to shut the fuck up.
I need him like love needs air.
When I’m not thinking, I’m thinking about him.
When I’m praying, I’m not praying about him.
God hears my prayers when they are not about him.
God doesn’t hear my prayers when they are about him.
Who is God if not air?
Must be so sad to need so much air
With Him, I have air.
With him, no air.
I am nothing.
I’m not one to usually care so much about air.
In this instance with him,
air is how I know I breathe.
If love be air,
then I don’t love.
If I don’t love,
I’m nothing but a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal (1 Corinthians 13:1).
I gain no air.
I commit to no air from him,
If I be an angel on High, I have all the air I will ever need.
An angel crashed down to Earth
is an angel that lost air
With him, I’m no angel.
With Him, I am an angel.
I am something.