Nothing more than a prayer written in all capital letters

i'm really trying to write more. writing makes me happy and i've not been writing enough.
Today’s prompt: “create a story or a poem inspired by this line from a Margaret Atwood poem: ‘we are learning to make fire’.”


A prayer written in capital letters moves me to tears, and I fall with it. My tired heart reaches out and settles itself between the letters, weaving itself in and out of the prayer, fluidly feeling each capital letter and caressing the curve of every question mark, embracing the looming arches of each capital ‘D’, savoring the romance of the double ‘ss’ of ‘FAITHLESS’. I stay like this for a while. Eyes closed, Heart asleep atop the prayer, like silk, tiredly loving all that a prayer written in capitals can be and all that it can never become. When my heart begins to stir awake, she comes back to me like a crimson red silk scarf, lightly dancing with the wind, floating on a visionless ballet of breath from someone I will never know; Like this, my heart becomes a part of me again. I open my eyes, gracefully lift my first two fingers to touch the prayer written in capital letters. I feel a flat page, I cannot dance with it like my heart has, I cannot embrace the letters, cannot weave myself in and out of the words. I touch the beginning, touch the “DEAR GOD” part.
“Why can my heart feel things that I cannot, you God? Why can she not tell me what she knows? Why can she hold me back from being in love with more than a prayer written in capital letters? How can I be happy when my heart keeps secrets from me? When the world keeps secrets from my heart? Answer me, You God, why don’t I understand how to live? Tell me all of this. Tell me passion, persistence, growth, endurement, perseverance. Tell me, You God, why my heart keeps me from being who everyone else can so easily be. Tell me why I question my heart, You God, tell me”
my mind gives up questioning, and rests. The old man whose been looming over his coffee cup for at least an hour stands up, I move my eyes to watch him. While keeping his eyes down, he slowly puts on his snow-stained fedora hat. He pauses, takes a worn breath, and slowly raises his defeated eyes to meet mine. We are the same age, we are children, we look at each other. Our gaze transcends the limits of what I know. His relaxed antique stature and defeated eyes wrap me and hold me in an understanding touchless embrace. He inhales with purpose. “we,” he whispers with his exhale, “are learning to make fire.” He buttons three of the four buttons on his old coat, forgetting the fourth, and drapes his scarf over his left forearm. He lets his eyes fall down with a gentle nod, meets my gaze one last time. And walks away. He smells of an old creaky bookstore.