I am no saint,
no scriptures will I write,
the sinners are long gone.

But you called me out,
rushed
at every moment
to get satisfaction,
for me,
to fill you up,
to quench
the same need,
spill my seed.

An accomplice I was
to your desire,
acting as if you
were made
in the same image,
an empty cup.

Darling,
sweet beautiful darling,
you are not a saint
either.
You
with your brown eyes
so dark,
so sad,
a brave front you paint
to cover
the deepest pain
I feel
I felt
it.

So sit,
sit there
tall,
stoic in the pews
and chant,
sing Alleluia,
give praises.

I promise,
I will keep you
alive
in my prayers,
it's all we have left.

And silence shimmers.