“I’m here to help you,” he said quietly, and brushed black curls back from pale cheeks and bright eyes. There was something infinitely sad about the face that watched, the face that compelled, the face that hoped. Few could meet his gaze and not want to tell, to confess, to beg forgiveness.
His mother had always hoped he’d become a priest, announcing salvation with a nod, a touch, a whisper.
Rosary beads and crucifixes, mercy and prayer.
Alleyways were his confessionals; icy rainwater sacred and the feel of his teeth a holy pilgrim’s kiss.
He gave absolution of a different kind.
Let us like in the alleyway come to some understanding of where your skin gives me the gall to find the beginning of mine. And other hairy stories. Link them, forget them, find them, return them. Do something.