Little Prayer

Let this be the healing.

Let her nachos always remain crunchy and her coffee be hot and sweet like dessert.

Let her throw it in the faces of those mustachioed baristas who silently judge the number of stevia packets she takes. Her sweetness is fake, an illusion.

Let her wear her threadbare Fugazi shirt and not have a flannel-wearing-checkered-vans clad bartender getting into day trading ask her to name three songs or tell her about his band.

Let her sweatpants always be fresh from the dryer warm, her softest hoodie never pill and her diet coke always crispy and cold. Let her mac always be cheesy and her wifi signal forever strong through the worst storms.

Let her run marathons if she wants to without once thinking if running makes her belly jiggle with each step. Never guessing if she was too loud, too honest, too much or did she smile enough but not enough that he follows her off the train and into a store late at night because she wanted a bag of chips.