You say you aren’t online.
But I know better.
You lurk around the edges.
Mostly silent.
Peering ever inward.

It seems just like you,
Or how I would imagine you.

These interactions are never straight forward.

You are a riddle to solve.

It is ironic that when you showed up as yourself
I was so used to the disguises that I failed to recognize you.

Is it really you speaking to me
From far off behind a silver screen
Like the angels sang for Vivaldi?

You are all voice
And have erased your image 
Carefully.
Meticulously.

Somedays I am 80% sure.
Others only 20.

Do I even want to know?

Or would I rather gather my suspicions 
And lace them together with broken logic?
A puzzle with a critical piece missing,
The left eye.

Are you asking for my faith?
Me? The one who would doubt even as I pressed the 
Seeping wounds where the nails drove in?

And would I give you what I could never give to God?

Did you know that when God speaks to me 
He uses your voice bc
It is one I can understand?

I wonder if they are tricking me into believing in something,
By asking me to believe in this?

I don’t think you ever tell me.
Not even when we are both dead 
And it no longer matters.


When I ask you
You will smile and deny.
You will say you have no idea what I am talking about.

And I won’t know if you are lying or laughing at me
But your eyes will glint with a mirthful truth.

I will always be wondering.

You haunt me.

Originally appear as part of Writing to the Muse