In the Divine Partnerlessness

Yet ask: before the face of God, which is not hidden from us but which we nevertheless steadfastly insist on not seeing, can we say with integrity that we are just and kind? I chop the remaining tortillas and fry the pieces in oil, scramble a couple eggs with cheddar and garlic, mix the whole of it up with salsa and eat alone at the dining room table. "You must be new here," is what I hear a lot, to which I can only reply "well, yes and no." Over the first cup of coffee and before anyone else awakens, what I call "prayer" is so translucent and pure it's like I'm a prism given to refractions of Love. The man who grumbles doing dishes, who sneaks around rather than scrub toilets, whose reading might be better named "skimming." So I'm confused, so what? The Lord is a handy moniker for what cannot be named but which paradoxically only reveals itself to that-which-cannot-help-but-name. It's not that I'm happy without you but that happiness in the best sense cannot be conditioned on specifics. On my end I'm looking forward to violets and listening to bees as they hum between apple blossoms. Whither love, whither indifference. In the divine partnerlessness, shall we rise and name our rising a dance?