poem, from long ago, with redactions.

I think God made you for me.

….

All these tiny accidents
stacking themselves
into something that feels
too deliberate to be chance.

I make a religion out of coincidences.
I collect them.

The way you look at me.
The way your arms fit around my waist.
The way your head finds my shoulder
like it already knows the way home.

The way you reach for me without thinking.

I take every little thing
and hold it up to the light
and ask,
See? Doesn’t this mean something?

…

You tell me
you never thought about ….
until I brought it up.
I don’t believe you.

Maybe because I need
to believe there was something
before I said it.

Something already there.
Something waiting for us.

Because otherwise …… ?

What was the timing?

What were all those
impossible little turns
that led me to you?

Maybe nothing.

Maybe you just
happened to walk past a …….

Maybe we just
got lucky.

Luck is too empty a word
for the way I feel when
I’m with you.

So I call it fate.
I call it God.

I call it anything
that gives me somewhere
to put all this love.

Because I need to believe
that something this beautiful
was meant to happen.

I need to believe
in the possibility of this
hapenning again.

Even if I have to make
a religion out of coincidences.