The day after Easter, the Pope died, and you asked,
“Wanna watch J.C. Waterwalker die?”
I said sure. We made nachos,
ate them while The Passion played.
Between floggings, I picked at a bruise—
no idea where it came from—
just above the knee, below a fading tattoo.
In the shower, it looked like ink:
deep purple,
as if it might bleed
into the water.
I scrubbed.
It stayed.
Later, wrapped in blankets,
on the edge of sleep,
my phone buzzed—
a text from you,
though you were lying right there:
“Sorry, dear. Almost made it a whole day
without texting you. Please forgive me.”
That’s when I noticed
how tightly I’d folded into myself,
how much I’d missed.
I want to say I’m sorry,
but instead I whisper,
“It’s sad the Pope
never got loved like this."
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