Prayers and You

Sitting here, in this hushed holy place, I can’t escape you. The stained glass casts its light, the air thick with incense and old prayers, with scenes of saints and angels, but all I can think about is you. And I wonder if it's wrong to think of you here, where love should be pure and untangled from the mess of my feelings. But it's like my heart doesn't understand sacred boundaries. The prayers around me are a soft murmur, but your name is the only word echoing in my mind. I should find peace here, yet my heart twists with every thought of you. Your face, your voice, your smile, your eyes that once looked at me with something I now realize was more than friendship. You’ve become my every prayer, my every plea, and I don't know if it's a blessing or a curse. I wonder if God understands this, the ache of knowing you're somewhere else, perhaps thinking of someone else. And my friends say I'm foolish, that I'm blind to the signs. Maybe I am, but what do they know of the agony of missing what was never mine to hold? The walls echo with whispered confessions, and I want to scream mine: that I miss you, that I regret not holding on tighter, that I can't stop thinking about what could have been. The candles flicker, and their flames seem to mock me, dancing with the same fire that you lit in my heart. And how I wish I could let go of this longing as easily as they melt away. But I can’t. I’m bound to you in ways that even these ancient hymns can't unravel. I’m praying for release, for some sign that I’ll survive this unending torment. But all I get is the quiet realization that you have always been the prayer I whisper when no one is listening, the confession I can't make. My constant, unyielding devotion that consumes me more than faith ever could. And maybe that's my penance, my cross to bear, for ever daring to think that you could be mine.