Content Warnings: religion
Jesus and I
Meet every Sunday evening
On the concrete roof
Of my apartment building
We complain about the government
And laugh about the weather
Until the sun rises
I watch him shiver
Still unaccustomed to Pacific winters
We lean into each other
His sheeps wool sweater itching my skin
Legs dangling
Over uncaring air
As he rubs the scars on his hands
While I wipe the tears from his eyes
And we remind ourselves
That life goes on
We write the names of our first lovers
On notebook paper to burn
And try not to think of last kisses
We linger as long as we can
In the stars
Avoiding the wooden weight
Of responsibility
Against our spines
I share some Tylenol when we head inside
For the migraines that started up
After the crown first dug into his temples
And we hug for a long time
His chapped mouth presses into my brow
As he whispers that love hurts
When wielded by heavenly fire
I bury my face somewhere under his jaw
And tell him he deserved a better father
When he leaves I sit on my kitchen floor
And write all the imperfect poetry
Of our hearts
That will never leave his tongue
Because I may have gotten free
Of false gods
And expectations
But he never will
It’ll be alright though
I can pray enough for the both of us