tuscaloosa > personals > missed connections


Sacrilege - St. Francis m4w

Date: 2010-08-23, 9:08PM CST

Did I ever tell you about the time I was a priest? It was raining, of course--the bridge that connected where I was and where I was going was slicked over with water as the cars slowed below. I tell you this not to be dramatic: that I fell in love with a girl with hair longer than the Bible, that my arms across her waist made me reconsider the pleasures of the flesh, though, of course, I would not use that word--I hate that word--I would use a word like 'skin', a word like 'you'. I know, it is not the time to joke about the word and words--capitalized or otherwise. I am, of course, being dramatic--it was simply a moment in between then and today, when nothing was certain. Of course, this is the basis of faith: belief in something without proof, without anything to hold. This is why I am here and this is why you are here: because we believe that we are meant to be here--how blessed it would be if we met in a church: how we both had too much to drink last night but something compelled us to set an alarm before talking in tongues into our pillows, that we heeded the alarm, how we put on our Sunday best. Let me let you in on a secret: God can hear your thoughts even when you're not making them--he knows I am staring at your calf muscles, flexed if only for a second as you kneel to pray. He knows you are passing the time in between the old women refusing to touch the body with anything but their tongues, the children walking up with both hands on their opposite shoulders like warriors, like a flag, to pass the time as we all sit in silence before we hear the echo of the tabernacle shutting, telling us that we can stop thinking about those we have lost and start thinking about what we need to do that day: what to have for breakfast, who to have it with, of courses, of course, of the course. We do not think of the path that is set for us: I leave, touch my forehead. I leave, touching my fingers to the water, fascinated at how quickly it dries on my flesh, my skin, my you. I shake hands with the priest, I touch God. Yet His hand is not the one I wanted.
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