Pray for prayer

I listen. To the prayers I don't understand. And the ones I'm not saying. The overlap and communion of breath. The clash and skism of all these words being spoken in unity. I sit below the chapel and drink a cup of coffee, not wanting to interfere with these intimate conversations with god. Like walking into a kitchen conversation when a couple has been arguing. They speak gruffly and urgently. They plead and bargain. They give thanks. So much thanks. For what they have and what they don't. What they are and what they are not. What they have done, and what they have not done. 

And I am thankful too. 

I listen to their prayers, and I close my eyes.

For the words I don't have. 

And the heart I can't muster.