Sunday morning
they wear their sunday best
line up in rows on wooden benches
bend in front of the icons
while they praise God
concealed in that house of stained glass
I praise your heart
your lungs
in the quiet still of your basement
where we sit for hours
every sunday
I praise anything that will keep you alive
and next to me
you've become my every reason for believing
if i live now
i do so for you
i will let my mouth close around full spoons
only for you
allow my eyes to open to the sun
every morning
because of you
know that when i lose you i will lose my every gratitude
each reason for belief accumulated
you've become my religion
the saints and the angels all live in your heart
