After the excessive drama,
the screaming, crying and the mess of the all-night,
after the echoes of the tongues of prayer so loud that they left your ears ringing for hours,
after all this, you are alone.
The buzz has worn off.
Your life returns to the regular,
the last embers of fireworks in your chest die,
and they die quickly.
Routine overshadows the ephemeron of the extraordinary,
the brief period of invincibility,
when you felt like you were capable of anything,
when you felt (like) God.
But now, you don’t know where the God in you went to,
and life is disappointing when devoid of explosions.
I regret your miraculous experience on your behalf.
It was like a too-bright light that obscured all the street lamps shining softly to guide you home.
It made you forget how to appreciate the complex beauty of a heartbeat,
or moonlight –
all the miracles that breathe quietly,
unaccompanied by your pastor’s screams of “Holy Ghost fire!”
The problem with miracles
is how easily they can make you forget
that you are one.