A lesson on being born...

It always happens like this...

Your hand will graze his, and you won't even notice
until he doesn't move. "Sorry," as your fingers make a
quick, awkward retreat to your pocket or your purse
or your hair. You didn't mean to, but you're not sorry.
You think you are, but you're not. And you noticed that
he didn't shrink away from you, and you know that if
your hands were to touch again in that way, your fingers
would recollect all of those underwater basket weaving
classes you skipped in college to have lunch together.

So you keep your hand in your pocket, in your purse, in
your hair. Because you're scared. Because you realize all
this tension started ten months ago. Because you remember
now the corn husk moon on the grass and the grass on your
feet and your feet in the cool, night air of May. Because you
remember how holy that was. And you're scared, because
this night could be holy, too. And you both know God a
whole lot better than most televangelists. But the God in
your actions and the God in your stomach, has never been
the God in your voice. So all this holiness comes manifest
in one hand graze and a lot of thoughts with no mouth.

All the Hail Mary's and Glory Be's aren't going to bring
your voice any closer to grazing his with a, "I think I like
you." Because you hide it a whole lot deeper than your
pocket or your purse or your hair. So tonight you'll leave
with that one moment, with the God in your stomach and
the God in your actions trying to make it past your teeth.