On a whim…

My tongue was a locked cathedral,
every word a stone that broke.
I tried to pray in splinters,
but silence carried more.

And you—
you read the ache without sound.
You carried the wound like seed,
planted it deep in your ground.

Grace in your body,
grace in your breath.
You forgave me in fire,
you forgave me in flesh.
I was the torment,
I was the wound.
You made forgiveness
the language of two.

I thought my shame was ocean,
a tide no hand could turn.
But your embrace was shoreline,
where even wreckage learns.

Your hand on my back,
your mouth on my skin—
you made my ruin a harvest,
you made me yours again.

No creed could bind it,
no prayer could find it.
Your body spoke
where words went blind.

Grace in your body,
grace in your breath.
You forgave me in fire,
you forgave me in flesh.
I was the torment,
I was the wound.
You made forgiveness
the language of two.