I meet you between a season.

I meet you between a season, warmer than autumn, and softer than summer. Where cold turns hot, and green turns to hazy rust.

I hate you for those times you tied me to the bed. You told me, “You know… Maybe I’ll leave you like this for a while.”

And I love you for the times you centered me in the bed, and held me in place for hours.

When you turned church into Israel, and water into wine. I knew you were trouble, but your troubles held me tight. Now I hold you in the center of the bed for a while, in the room where the man in white says you must rest.

I never see yellow and its radiance in the sky the same anymore. I see your sage blades, and copper skin, your blue, and the time you smiled bright. If I had known your season would collide into mine, and then leave before dawn rose tall, I would tell you I love you, today, and beyond tomorrow.

Excerpt from
Between Jerusalem and Mexico, a taboo love.