It’s the stone sunk in the belly.
The moment the airplanes wheels touch the ground
and you become a creature of mud and earth again.
Maybe its’ relief,
maybe a lack of belief in what you can’t touch.
You pen long letters to the feeling,
hoping to find proof of your faith somewhere in the lines.
You wait for someone to whisper it in your ear as you’re sleeping, why you feel more at home away from it, why you prefer other beds to your own,
why you feel your gut turn sour when you consider anything else than a white knuckle grip.
You don’t understand that you have give up yourself to contemplate divinity,
that it isn’t magic the way you think, because then
every spring would be an incantation spoken, every morning you wake up to the sun, conjured, each birth a spell.
You say the false prayers and hope for a miracle,
your fingers lost in the sand of faith, combing through shells and pebbles for anything alive, anything resembling an answer.
You are learning to be less than, knowing that you came from greater than.
You are learning that belief is often greater than the truth, and there is never just one way north.