Doubt

Eyes like barn owls, perched

in the rafters of her face. I'm searching the air

for the right questions to all the answers

I've been given, only to come up

with faces, time and time again.

Why is it that we lunge for one another as if our minds

are the only things we might not lose? Striking out

towards the windmill on the horizon, I feel

thin cords of the invisible drawing us

together. A blank canvas hangs where the face of God

once rested. “Some things just can't be explained,”

She tells me, with a serene sense of hope,

mysteries compounding in the dark of her eyes.

I look up, and the windmill hasn't gotten any

closer. Somehow, I doubt it ever will. And we're

charging headfirst into the apocalyptic white

nonetheless, the only living things for miles,

terrified to call anything but each other ‘real’.