Little Cathedral

There is a chapel under my collarbone
where your prayers arrive unannounced.
They kneel as heat, as trembling grammar,
as the word please carved into silence.
I am not holy, only haunted.
You are not faithful, only sure.
We light a match and call it choir.
We close our eyes and see each other clearly.
Outside, the night keeps counting its coins,
buying more shadow for the alley of hours.
Inside, we forget to be careful and live.
The hymn is simple: stay, stay, stay.
If sin is a door, let it close behind us.
If grace is a window, let it fog with our names.