as yours, I tend to think they
might be your distant relative.
Whoever comes from your state,
I quietly assume they must
know you somehow.
It's as if geography itself is too
small to not carry traces of you.
Or you're are perpetual enough
to not be everywhere?
I search for your familiarity
in borrowed accents,
in train station conversations,
in the way certain people
stretch vowels while speaking
your language.
Sometimes a stranger laughs
in a way that resembles you
for half a second-
and my heart, foolish thing,
stands up to attention.
I know how absurd this is.
You cannot be scattered
across an entire population.
And yet,
my mind keeps rehearsing
your presence
through other people.
I very well know this in my
bones, that this is an illusion
cast by my fancy.
Yet, I let my longing weaken
the borders between
resemblance and memory.
So what if every map
feels mildly inhabited by you.
What if every language in
the world has your hints.
When every crowd seems
to be capable of returning
you to me,
why would I wanna strip
down my delusion?
When my my devotion
for you is as real as the day,
Why wouldn't I fancy every
attribute of God to you?
That way, you're at least
omnipotent.