I’ve been watching you for a long time now, you long lived and heavily scented tradition, you. You’re familiar, you see, because of my Catholic roots yet you are completely mysterious. You are someone I have never met yet you feel long lost to me, unavailable, I thought, because well… I’m not Greek…not even close. I’ve kept to myself my love of your iconography and pungent incense, wide cathedral ceilings and stiff chair. I’ve disguised it as nostalgia for the past, dismissed it as completely mental and counter cultural, then again, when have I ever conformed to the sane and cultural? It’s not so surprising, then, I suppose.

So I sit in quiet-like…listening with curiosity and caution, completely unsure of what kind of future we could possibly have together. How can I love you well while I fear that under your musky breath you may speak some truth I do not like, when I fear that I’ll be judged harshly by others when they see your charcoal stained hands on my shoulders?

Even so…I find I can’t wait to see you, to know you better, to peel the layers of history and fragrance, strange and mystical, strong and steadfast until at last I see myself made whole again.


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