She tells me—
There is no god in the sky,
no book written in fire,
no heaven waiting with open doors.
I tell her—
Then let me be your scripture,
let my hands write verses on your skin,
let my breath be the miracle
you never believed in.

She laughs—
soft, skeptical, beautiful,
like a temple abandoned to time.
I kneel before her,
not to worship,
but to whisper—
May your atheist heart find God in me.

Let my love be the unseen force
that makes you doubt your doubts,
the prayer you say in your sleep,
the faith you never meant to have
but somehow—
still feel.

And if one day,
you look at me
the way a sinner looks at salvation—
then I, too,
will believe in miracles.