If I believed in gods,
I’d revere you
like the last believer alive;
like you were both
the gods and the temples.
If my faith belonged to Satan,
I’d worship you
like a religious heretic;
like you were hell itself
and the antichrist waiting inside it.
I’m an anti-theist, you see,
averse to worship,
to kneeling before clay feet
mistaken for divinity.
But for you,
I’d become an atheist
just so I could still worship you
outside the etiquettes of scripture,
beyond the imagined divides of a gospel.
Because religions collapse eventually.
Gods die.
Prophets rot into quotations.
Faith decays into ritual
and ritual into inheritance.
But obsession,
obsession survives its own ruin.
I want to be a narcissist,
so I could mistake you for myself
and never have to stop worshipping.
So every mirror becomes a shrine.
Every vein, a pilgrimage route.
Every breath,
proof that devotion
does not require heaven to exist.
And if loving you is blasphemy,
then let disbelief become my religion.
Because I have seen enough of gods
to know this much:
none of them
have ever felt as real
as you.
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