Goodness through the eyes of a daughter

I wear the goodness up my throat the way you placed it on me. Because perhaps my eyes are sparkly, or perhaps my fingers are dainty. But never for the ever-so implicit reasons like how tender-hearted I have been. For the letters of your name are etched onto the deepest pit of my relentless pumping heart; only that I wish it spells a different name. Like my own, for instance. Once the remains of my breath no longer hinder your steps, I would wish you nothing but an oddly big and forgiving smile on your face. One so truthful it stopped the regret from streaming down through all over your body like an early morning acid reflux. And I would wish that I could miss you, that I could willingly reach out for you in desperation of the diminishing crumbs of your mercy, in a sense that you’d pray for me day and night and I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of offering a tenfold more of prayers to bear in return. But God Himself bears no grace in me. Yet I would nod in agreement to all of your statements, in sweetness’s absence, of course. Because my throat knew nothing but the goodness you placed on me.