By Icess Fernandez Rojas
Bury me in the memories of your arms, protected by the strong crevasse your chest and shoulder,
So close to your heart I can hear it whisper, it’s tiny voice growing bolder.
It speaks to me of love, gained and lost and regained.
It tells me secrets of truths and lies and who’s to blame.
A hurt-lined path, a regret, and a climb to redemption.
A run, away from a memory having its way with you, without exception.
The spaces between the beats, hidden conversations.
I am the priest to your confession. Tell me your sins and imperfections.
You have lied, you have coveted, you have lusted.
You have betrayed those you have once trusted.
You say you are not worthy of love in all its forms — admiration, respect.
Your cross, your burden, your penitence is all you will accept.
But your confessor forgives and I love you beyond my reason
Bury yourself in me, a second chance, the spring of your season.
Because I am a sinner in search of love on a path not yet traveled
I am in need of company, to carry the burden not yet unraveled.
I’ve been reckless, dangerous, in a world made of glass.
Balancing between loving you and loving me and me loving you in our personal Mass.
Forgive me Father for I have sinned, my confession lies within my memory.
I have no recollection of how I got here. No shame. I do not repent the metaphor of my tragedy…
To love one man, as I love myself, despite his flaws…
Because of his flaws, with his flaws, flaws and all.
He and I make a perfect part of sinners. Smile.
Among the crowd of pointing fingers, go ahead and put us on trial.
No. We are no better than each other. We read from the Bible of Mistakes.
We speak the same faulty language of fuck ups and forsakes.
So you and I have traveling to do, a road not taken
Filled with excuses, explanations and apologies. Frost-bitten
We’ll share the weight of our crosses and let the burdens lead us where they may.
I am your imperfection, a mirror of your transgressions, wherever they lay.
So let me bury myself in the memory of your arms, my role is traditional
It carries me down this path of our love. A path toward unconditional.
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