An Ode

The Moment I Realized

 

There are no speakings in

strange tongues.

In fact, there is not a sound.

The recorded chanting is more of

a smell;

fresh-cut roses in the candlelight.

Cushions bring cold sweat from

my legs.

It is a comfortable awkwardness

as I rest my head against

his shoulder.

The priest passes and we are one.

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