Watching My Words Burn

I

We need to learn to write about our loves.

We talk about abstractions –

lust, fornication, purity, sin, homosexuality.

But not about bodies, hands, hearts, tongues, tears,

scribbled notes on the kitchen counter,

shoulders to cry on –

and certainly not about what it feels like to –

Never mind.

Maybe we’re right to be cautious.

But maybe, if we were to write,

and really talk, and really feel, and really be,

we would find that as we watch our words burn up,

flaming out into the great silence,

Jesus kisses us on the mouth,

and we are his.

II

We need to learn to write about our loves.

We talk about abstractions –

lust, fornication, purity, sin, homosexuality, even marriage.

But not about bodies: hands touching faces, hearts bursting with love, tongues touching lightly, tears’ salty taste,

Notes scribbled in pencil in our mother’s hand, or our lover’s, on the kitchen counter,

Arms wrapped around shoulders,

the wrench in the stomach and shatter in the chest of suddenly being left alone –

and certainly not about what it feels like to be with, inside, overcome…

or what it feels like to never have had, or to lack, these things.

Stories take time. Stories are messy. Never mind.

Sometimes, in those special cases where we come crashing down from abstraction,

And if we were very honest with each other

—if “I” was very honest with “you”—

I might find myself embracing you,

even kissing you!,

Deliberately, ecstatically,

Because you become the icon through which

I know Jesus.

The shocking thing is,

You are kissing me back.

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