Christ. I still recall the scent of wood clinging to him,
Relic of forgotten years in his father’s shop. We slept
Under the carving table sometimes, such innocents. We were
Children together — and not together. He was something special, and I,
I was just the girl down the street, no better than she should be.
For all the kisses exchanged, he would always walk away, and I,
I knew better than to hold him. Years later, we met again, without kisses.
Contempt clung to his friends — they stank of their virtue,
Turning away, towing him along. I almost left him then, but
In those amber eyes was such a haunting misery…
Oh, I stayed. They nailed him to their cross, almost alone, but I
Never left him. He left me; I never left him. Remember that.
April 7, 1995