I Would Miss You

For all the pencil probes I put to “Her,”
I’m neither satisfied she is nor not.
Is there a crack? What can we now infer?
They will not go away, whether they ought.
I charge at “God” as if a contact sport.
He’s twice my size, possessing all the balls.
I hail the Virgin Mary and abort.
I hit the wall, imagining it falls.
This pastime for the one who would but can’t
is not quite faint of heart, nor fully beat.
The “God” I know won’t care if I levant.
“What does that mean?” The sound of it is sweet.
I could decamp, abscond; “He” would not know.
I think that I would miss them, should I go.