His shame My shame

Etched in the lines of our palms,

coming together

as knees and the floor

The desire to comfort him,

breathe a warm breeze in his ear

Whisper

‘It’s okay,’ He’s a great guy.

Instead, I exhale

the tantalizing torture of an innocence lost 

(I cannot count how many ears have heard this story, now. But his were the first.)

He cleans my tears with his fingerprints

Takes my palms and joins them together

He wants to pray

So we do.

‘Hail Mary, full of grace

Give this Mary back what has been snatched away.’

And then, an empty room.

Dust deposits on my empty hands

And my gullible heart still rejoices,

having experienced the adrenaline of nakedness.

She has finally been seen.

(Another virginity stripped. What else have I to offer?)

His warmth is imperceptible

All I sense now are echoes

of cold consolation

But they are his,  so they’re music.

(then again, silence.)

The last time our palms came together was for that Hail Mary

under the fountains of my eyes.

The last amen of his empty prayer.