There is No God

There is no God in your front door.

There is no God in your welcome mat.

There is no God in your coats.

There is no God in your boots.

There is no God in your friends' paintings.

There is no God in your family photos.

There is no God in your sewing kit.

There is no God in your fabrics.

There is no God in the blanket you made for my daughter.

There is no God in your bookshelves.

There is no God in your scrapbooks.

There is no God in your poetry.

There is no God in your fireplace.

There is no God in your oven mitts.

There is no God in the mugs I gifted you.

There is no God in your cookbooks.

There is no God in your mirrors.

There is no God in your lights.

There is no God in your candles.

There is no God in your towels.

There is no God in the holy book you kept on your nightstand.

There is no God in your medication.

There is no God in the last journal entries you wrote.

There is no God in your sheets.

There is no God in your pillows.

There is no God in your scent.

There is no God in your memory.

There is no God in your family.

There is no God inside of me.

There is no God inside of you.

There is no God in the body that you left behind on the way to Heaven.

Comments: I had to work at this a little bit before I knew what I wanted from it—specifically, how it should end, because while there is something evocative about simply describing a walkthrough of a loved one's house post their death from the perspective of someone who does not agree with their religion, it doesn't have a lot going on besides that. the idea that there maybe is a God, but only one that has already abandoned this world, hits a bit harder.