I think we all have tried to play the role of God in some way…

Especially if you have been lucky enough to hold a lover’s face in the palm of your hands and realize that such passion is prayer

That there is a great heartbeat of a long awaited promise resting in the quiet fire of their

secret pain…

But somehow their hands still find your own knowing truth is woven in them…

And they trace, slowly, the edge of your finger with theirs leaving behind remnants of their heart

For you know not what hurts them…

Even what the holding of your hand comforts them from