God lives among the glass

bottles and potions on her 

wicker vanity, and in the memory

of the time she was first told

to fear wrinkles. 

God swims in the depths of 

perfumes misted upon 

the delicate skin of wrists 

and collarbones. And in 

pigments brushed across 

eyelids and cupid’s bows. 

It’s in the warmth of lamp

light that dances over 

fallen clothes and bell hooks

quotes. She says “I hate 

fluorescence,” and I think

I’m in love with her. 

God lives in the piles

of unread novels,

within dog-eared pages

and coffee-stained words—

her chicken scratch 

in the margins.

I find heaven in

her floral sheets—the 

smell of her hair lingers 

among pillow cases and 

stuffed lions. Everything is 

so, so soft. 

God lives in the Polaroid of 

her parents when they were 

still in love. The dazzling radiance

of their laughter and joy—the story 

of her creation framed 

on her nightstand.