A kiss in the dark; no theology could train the lips
to speak the full scope of love — what faith teaches,
touch unlearns. For a man in the weeds — _tangled_,
unseen — is still something that grows, stretching
toward light he may never reach. Still beauty never
promised to be impressive.
Ready to fall; not for love, but from the weight
of being myself —this awkward custody of flesh
and thought. It's truly a case argued by the mind,
and tried by the heart.
Walls of a lung breathing in and out, taking in their
words, their dreams, their worth — as if loving meant
learning to breathe through someone else’s lungs.
But we may never know how far a love may go;
it’s always a shot in the dark — blind in faith, eyes
closed in trust, when lips meet and silence speaks for us.
Only after they part does the night exhale the truth:
was it worth the shot — or just the echo of our wanting?