Abscess (absence)

The entrance to my church is an airlock.
A door to come into, a small space of hesitation,
And another door after. 
I sit and sing on quiet days, letting people in, wondering if I'll ever leave, or become something greater.
After entering, there is another airlock, another pause in the long stretch of time,
And on the other side there is music and people talking of eyes and obedience.
I do not know where the air was meant to be, inhaled or known.

The lock was not tight enough,
Absence got in.

I shake her cold hand and ask her how she has been,
I circle her name on the long list, 
hold the door open for a ghost.

The church is an animal.
Not a biting dog, or a scratching cat,
the entrance has no mouth.
But a cell that fails inspection can meet a virus,
Then that cell can cause an infection.

Absence sits and draws, pen to skin, 
Absence draws bacteria.
An illness only we both know, 
Absence drowns the pens ink in water.

(A vaccine typically works by disguising itself as an illness, to strengthen an immune system)

We sit in the second airlock,
And absence has never sang louder