Monday, May 25, 2020

You Mistake My Moans for Rain

I never dream of you, a sign in my living of a woman to be taken seriously, though once, years ago, I dreamed I visited a house in which you had grown up and recently visited, and I went from room to room looking for something I could take to remember you by, and found nothing suitable, save the faintest scent of pine forests after rain, and I woke wracked with desire and shame, jacking off quickly in the bathroom, then leaning my forehead on the frosty west-facing window, begging God to free me, or at least explain my suffering, which He did not then nor anytime since consent to do. Can I get an amen? We come out of our bodies like lanterns swaying in the hands of pilgrims approaching through mist. Or are we ourselves darknesses against which some greater light asserts a holy refulgence? I long for a church in which to forget everything, a prayer that will soothe every untouched ache and unmet cry. Dust to dust is no comfort now I know that we live forever in the other's sacred heart. Another day passes, another letter goes unwritten. I wanted to travel but learned instead to be a road. You pass over me and I moan and you mistake my moans for rain. Lifetime after lifetime after lifetime. All things remain in God - all things for good - but Christ what I paid to learn it.

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